A Better Friend
by TheBatKid
Summary: A baby is abandoned on Leonardo's doorstep, and is soon thrown into a world of hidden blades and dripping paint.
1. The Unwanted

A Better Friend

Leonardo had thought how strange it was for there to be rain so late in the summer.

Florence usually had such nice weather at that time, with the sun boring down on the glorious Florentine architecture, casting shadows in which merchants set up their market stalls and tried to sell their strange, sometimes exotic wares.

As the artist peeked outside the window to the torrential downpour outside, he could imagine no merchants were milling in the unsheltered streets. The Lords and Ladies would have scampered back to their homes, the homeless to their wells and the pickpockets and urchins to wherever they deemed well-hidden. The guards only seemed to tolerate a certain kind of people, it seemed.

At twenty-one years of age, Leonardo counted himself to be one of the lucky few. He had his own workshop and a future ahead of him, despite his close friendship with the wanted assassin Ezio Auditore. His childhood seemed to be nothing but a minor setback he had already surpassed; his illegitimate status was all but forgotten in this new era, wherein he had a feeling he would make his mark in history.

Rain splattered against his window and left behind miniature puddles, sliding down to make a little river at the bottom of the pane, and he found himself mesmerised by it for a moment.

It was as he was immobilised that he heard a knock at his door.

"Coming!" he announced, certain it would be a bothersome guard searching for some fugitive.

Glancing at the clutter in his workspace as he shuffled to the door, the artist wondered for a moment if he should bother cleaning it. He liked company, and when people visited it seemed they always had something to say about the way he lived – something of an organised mess, they would call it – yet he had found no solid reason to tidy things up, no point in stacking his books or categorising his art supplies if he was only going to get them out again, and he had pushed the thought aside by the time he reached his front door.

_Odd_, he thought when he turned the knob; _No more knocking. Perhaps they've already left?_

Never one to go by assumption alone, Leonardo opened the door to check. He was met by a gust of wet wind that promptly soaked his face and outfit, sticking the tips of his hair to his forehead, but after blinking it from his eyes the outside world came slowly into focus.

No one. There was no one standing there; not a guard or a neighbour; not an urchin or a homeless person seeking charity. He felt cheated for a moment, disturbed from a rare moment of peace that saw him leaving this world and joining his own, but that all changed when he glanced down at his doorstep.

There, on the slightly raised platform that sat in front of his door, was a small basket – no bigger than a child's flower basket. The only difference he could see was the fact there was a small hood to this one, made from the same material but much newer, much more careful, as though created for one purpose. The hood was up, shielding whatever was laid inside, and the artist couldn't see anything else except a blue blanket with a small note set down in the middle.

He crouched down to closer inspect the basket. As he did so he caught a flash of pink skin, heard a whimper that quickly fell silent. His eyes widened when he realised that this was not just some random gift left by an admirer, or even a new attempt at burglary.

"Un bambino!" his gasp was quiet compared to the tempest outside. Two watery brown eyes looked at him, larger than any he had seen before, and with a glance behind him Leonardo found himself standing and searching for the child's mother.

"Hello?" he called into the deserted street; "Hello? Is anyone there?"

Only the wind seemed to answer his cries, shrieking through the streets like a demented old woman at her grown children. With nothing else to do and realising the air was only growing colder, Leonardo picked the basket up by the little handle, his door's _clunk_ as it closed barely audible above the storm.

The child seemed to sense the change in environment, but it didn't wail. Instead, it looked up at him with vacant eyes, small hands balled into fists which sat at either side of its face and occasionally waved in the air.

Leonardo picked up the note, hoping it would give him some answers; perhaps a clue to where the mother had gone to, or why she would leave her baby at a stranger's door.

He read the barely legible writing by the glow of his candle;

_Per favore, non farmi uccidere._

It was written as though the child were speaking directly to him, with nothing to say about the mother other than she was scared for her baby's wellbeing. Leonardo could only imagine what events had led to this move. As he closed the note he imagined her situation – perhaps she was one of the courtesans he saw wandering the streets, and the baby was a result of miscalculation. Or perhaps the baby was an illegitimate child of some powerful politician? The possibilities could go on and on, yet the artist had a strange feeling he would never know what drove her to this move.

"Now," Leonardo sighed, placing the note down and pulling the basket towards him, careful when he drew back the hood in case it wasn't as strong as it seemed; "What am I to do with you?"

The child looked up at him without fear, without concern, but also without understanding. Too young to know the severity of its situation.

_He, _Leonardo chastised himself, though he didn't quite know how he knew.

In the flickering candlelight, the artist became aware of the baby's features. A small button nose and a slightly smaller than average gap between the eyes – unnoticeable to someone who wasn't a painter – complete with a set of thin, pink lips, and dark hair, almost black, in wisps on top of a round-shaped head. He couldn't have been more than a few days old at most.

Leonardo smiled; far from the ugliest baby he had seen, perhaps in his top ten, granted he tended to stay away from infants and their usually proud mothers.

"If I leave you out in this weather, you'll catch your death of cold," he mused just as wind battered against his window; "We shall have to wait until this clears up, yes? Perhaps then we can ask if anyone saw your mother."

He took a seat on the stall beside him, sweeping his art supplies to one side as he retrieved a clean sheet of paper from a somewhat tidy stack to his left.

"Well, until then I can use you to practice some of my drawing. No point in letting a good opportunity go to waste – you've very prominent features, perfect for sketches."

It was then that Leonardo realised that he'd no idea what this baby's name was. Perhaps he didn't have one? It would stand to reason that, if she planned to abandon him on some doorstep, his mother wouldn't have bothered giving him a title.

Perhaps against his better judgement, the artist grinned and said; "Do you like the name Fiorentino? I will call you that until the guards find your mother. An unusual name for an unusual situation."

The newly named Fiorentino just stared at him, his big brown eyes focused as his hands clenched over and over again.


	2. Insight to the World Beyond

By the third hour, Leonardo knew the storm was going to last. Its winds stilled hammered away at his window, its rain now a hard rapping against the glass, and as it grew in intensity so did it grow in volume.

"Now, now," he soothed the frightened Fiorentino; "A storm is nothing to get upset about. Quite the opposite, in fact. The city is so beautiful when wet, and if the sound is anything to go by I'd say everything will be soaked by tomorrow. You'll adore it when we look for your mother. So much to see."

He was making conversation out of habit, since usually his guests were older and had a predilection for small talk. Fiorentino seemed to calm at his voice, though. His agitated hands stilled enough to fall on the blanket, denting the coarse blue material that Leonardo assumed was fairly low-quality, and his brown eyes, enhanced by the candlelight, looked at the artist as though willing him to talk more, willing him to divert his attention from the tempest outside.

"Perhaps a storm is just what this city needs. Too often I find guards standing idle in the shade, while good people in the marketplace are being robbed. It's a sad time to live in when we can no longer count on the law to see things right."

Leonardo smiled at the boy, sketching out his round cheeks with an almost unnatural care. Fiorentino kept his gaze fixed on the artist's face, and even when lightning lit up the whole workshop his eyes were firm.

_Strange,_ Leo thought as he began to shade, _I thought babies never focused? Or am I thinking of newborns? I doubt he's much older, though. Whatever the case, it feels…peculiar._

"You remind me of someone I know."

Fiorentino made a little gurgling noise. In the back of his mind the artist wondered if he somehow understood, but decided it was just a coincidence.

"I haven't seen him in a long time, though. A year, I think. He was troubled – family executed, and the few that survived went into hiding. He came to me with an odd little design."

The artist paused. In the dim light and cosy surroundings of the workspace, it was easy to let his mouth run away with him. As the flame beside him flickered, his eyes were drawn to the wick, watching as liquefied wax ran down its sides and were collected in the simple brass holder. Had he allowed himself to go on, he'd no doubt he would have revealed his part in Ezio's escape, how he slotted in to the life of a fugitive he hadn't seen in a year.

Then he realised how foolish he was being. Fiorentino couldn't understand him, had no idea who Ezio even was. If there was anyone he could talk to about that young rogue, anyone he could speak with who would never run to the guards, it was that abandoned basket-child; the gift he had never expected.

How much harm could a baby do?

So as he laid his head into his palm, elbow resting on the table, Leonardo let himself speak without trepidation; "His mother and I were close, you see. She bought all of my painters when I was just starting out. A lover of the fine arts, and with such a refined palette; she and Giovanni were two of the most respected citizens in all of Florence. Giovanni was her husband."

Fiorentino watched him as he rambled over the smaller details of the Auditore's lives – where they lived, who their friends were, how many children they had – before the artist forced himself back onto the topic. It felt good, he realised, to talk about his strange allegiance.

"Upon Giovanni and his sons being executed, Ezio – the troubled man I told you about – came to me, toting a blade he needed repairing. But the design was much too old and sophisticated for me to do anything. I was only able to help him when he gave me a codex page, like a manual of sorts, and since then I haven't heard from him. I do hope he's alright. I wouldn't want for him to come to any harm."

Leonardo paused his rambling, rubbing his thumb and index finger together as he twiddled the lead rod in his other hand. It had been a while since he had heard anything from Ezio; as it stood, what the artist knew was that the assassin had removed himself from Florence, and if he still lingered on their familiar streets he had done so without revealing himself. Not that any wanted man would willing do that, anyway.

"Nevertheless, I'm sure he will visit when he can." Leonardo's eyes went back to his work. The silver point sketch was almost complete; it just lacked that flare; that little something he could never quite identify but always managed to capture. His master had often told him a visionary never understood how he was able to see or replicate beauty, but merely learnt to accept it as the gift it was.

"Ah, bastardo, what am I missing?" he asked himself, tapping the rod against the sketch. His eyes went back to little Fiorentino who, under the intensity of the gaze, squirmed and flailed his tiny hands in the air.

It was the movement that caught Leonardo's attention. A flash of candlelight entered those big brown eyes and set them aglow. It hinted at themes the artist had never toyed with; the beginning of life, the hidden potential that resided in every baby's first breath, first steps, first look into the world beyond them. It was unfamiliar ground. It was exciting.

"Hold still for a moment, Fiorentino," he urged the child while his hands went back to work; "You've given me an excellent idea."

And even though the storm still raged outside, and the shadows hid secrets and assassins roamed free, Fiorentino and Leonardo were safe in that little workshop, in the cosy light of the candle, with a gentle foreboding that peace would never last.


	3. Special Brand of Justice

"He was left outside my workshop a few days ago, during the storm."

Leonardo handed the basket over to the guard, who regarded it with a look of disgust. A thin man, his moustached face twitched as if repulsed by the baby, his armour glinting in the strong sunlight that now washed over the streets.

"Probably just an unwanted figlio bastardo," he mused, "A courtesan must have left him there in the hopes he would die."

"She knocked on my door." Leonardo defended, though he couldn't deny the thought hadn't crossed his mind. Around them was the bustle of street life; long-frocked ladies and their smiling husbands, gold pouches on proud display, all the while merchants squawked out their various deals and prices. It was hard for the artist to focus on the conversation, so easily distracted by new wares.

"Whatever the case, the other guards and I will be sure to take care of him."

"Grazie."

Leonardo tilted his head downwards in acknowledgement, hesitant to shake the sly guard's hand. It made him feel as though he was agreeing to something sinister. As he went to turn, little Fiorentino caught his eye, and he gave the child a smile before saying his farewell.

"I'm sure we will meet again someday," he reasoned, unsure why he was sad to see him go, "but until then; grow strong and behave, little one."

With one more look into those endearing brown eyes, Leonardo disappeared into the crowd.

He spent the next few hours browsing through new market stalls, checking for a rare souvenir that might make for good practice. His portraits had been lacking that special ingredient that made them so personal, the soft faces and gentle hair of the ladies he drew not yet beautiful, merely adequate. If he could stumble upon something that could give his work that flare, or at least boost his mood while he found it, it would make his life a lot easier.

But no matter how many stalls he trawled through or how many relics he came across, Leonardo struggled to take his mind away from the baby. He had no doubt Fiorentino was safe. How could one hurt such an innocent, lovable creature? In the days leading up to it, the artist had found himself dreading handing the child over, pleased for the quiet company he provided and the much needed distractions from his work. On occasion, he had even braved the storm to go and fetch supplies.

_He will be much better off when they find his mother, _he thought resolutely; _It's probably a mistake that he found himself on my doorstep. I suspect she must be going mad with worry at the moment._

Nevertheless, Fiorentino stayed on his mind.

Despite there being a wealth of new stalls and items of display, none of them had what Leonardo wanted. He searched high and low for something that would ignite his desire to paint. So far it had died into embers, themselves slowly becoming ash, and he feared if he did not feed the flame soon it would be extinguished forever. A life without the will to create was a life he never wanted to lead. But what could give him that will? Was there a specific tonic he needed, a medicine from the Doctore? Was there something missing from his workshop that would have to be installed?

_I'm a young man – I shouldn't be having this motivational crisis!_

On his way home, in low spirits, he decided to take a different route; one that would take him through a back alley that led to a small sitting area. The place was beautiful, with a small tree that bloomed with bright pink flowers, and children who would pepper the ground with a wealth of toys. There were also high walls there which would shield him from the sun. It had grown hotter over the time he spent wandering, as though trying to make up for the storm in a few short hours.

"Ah, who cares?"

A voice caught his attention. He glanced down one of the narrow alleyways to his side, shrouded in shadow, and saw the familiar glint of armour catching the sun.

Spurred by the apparent secrecy of the conversation, Leonardo took a sharp turn, heading down the alley while keeping close to the shadows. The speaking guards hadn't seemed to notice him.

"We may find ourselves in trouble if we just-"

"What trouble could there possibly be? No one knows the bastardo. No one cares if he lives or dies. Disposing of him is a greater kindness than letting him live this miserable reality."

There was a smile evident in that guard's voice. A red hot flash of anger clouded Leonardo's vision for a moment when he realised it was the same guard he had given the baby to, and it didn't take a scholar to figure out who they were talking about.

His friend held back his bitter prejudice, at least; "We cannot know if this is what He wants of us."

"Why not? Figili bastardi are just another blight on this earth. Mouths to feed. Orphanages to build. We could lessen the strain on the good people's pockets if we lessen the populace of these…things."

Leonardo watched as he produced that meagre little basket out of the sun. When he saw the pink skin that was Fiorentino's hand, he felt something bubble inside him. Happiness, perhaps? Relief? It was only when he realised what it was that he realised how much he missed the baby. It was heart breaking to hear Fiorentino's frightened cry.

But the guards had kept him out in the sun, with that blanket on him. As the artist drew nearer, the more he recognised that Fiorentino hadn't even been checked, merely taken as he was and left to bake in the heat.

He resolved to be as quiet and as slow as possible. Not one for confrontation, Leonardo would wait until the guards' backs were turned, until they were no longer discussing what to do so he could snatch the infant away. He had no idea what he would do when Fiorentino was returned to his workshop.

_That can wait. What matters now is keeping him safe._

"What should we do with him, then?" There was resignation in the other guard's voice.

"We take it to the nearest river and drop it out of the basket. If He means for the creature to live, so it will be saved. If not, we have done our service to mankind."

It was then that both of the guards became distracted by something in the street – a scuffle or a disagreement, Leonardo couldn't tell. As they darted out to apply routine brutality, the artist grabbed the opportunity with both hands, clutching the baby's basket holder and snatching it away in a casual move. He glanced towards the guards to be sure he wasn't seen, but within seconds he had vacated the area and left them way behind.

When he was sure they were no longer in the 'red zone,' he held the basket up to see the pink creature inside. Crimson lining his features, the round face looked at him and a gurgle bubbled from Fiorentino's throat, scarcely audible above the din of conversation around him.

Leonardo could only shake his head; "It's a sad time to live in, little one."


	4. Little Dented Miracles

Leonardo's conscience was eating away at him.

He had saved Fiorentino, yes, and he would never regret his decision to go against the guards, but he still believed that the child's mother deserved to have her baby back. He could think of no other reason why she would have given him up other than a mistake, for Fiorentino was too good, too lovable to have been abandoned out of one's own volition.

But despite this, the artist prepared himself. He hired a wet nurse, much to his chagrin, and sent out people to find suitable clothes; "Anything that looks comfortable and is of better quality than his blanket," he'd ordered.

Fiorentino had fallen asleep by the time everything was done. The moon filtered through the window and highlighted everything in a silvery glow, giving it an ethereal feel as Leonardo watched the baby. He noticed the way his nostrils flared, how his hands clenched and unclenched as if preparing for an argument. As the artist rocked back on his favourite chair, his eyes rarely left that child's relaxed face, and when they did it was only to check that none of his requests had returned.

_I would have liked to have designed a feeding bottle,_ he thought; _It would do more good to have that than a woman cluttering up my space. Il __mio__dio__, why must everything happen when I'm so unprepared?_

And yet, he couldn't bring himself to wish Fiorentino on someone else. Had someone else found him, they may have done the exact same as the guards. Another baby's body would be discovered by a peasant girl, washed up on some riverbank in the humble countryside, and no one would have known that he had been so adorable, so bouncy despite his quietness – he would just have been another unwanted bastardo.

"Well, we'll have none of that." He said, more to himself as he collected up some supplies, "You and I will find a way to fix this, Fee."

He paused. 'Fee.' Somehow, the nickname struck a chord within him. It suited the boy. Though it was childish and not at all noble, it betrayed a sort of innocent about it, reminding all that even as a bastardo he was still someone's figlio, and still a child in this chaotic, changing world.

"Yes, Fee will do nicely. What do you think?" he smiled at Fiorentino's twitching face; "It suits, no? Sleep now, il mio garzone. You've had quite the day."

There was a sharp knock at the door. Leonardo turned, charcoal floating over a crisp white sheet of paper, and his annoyance only lasted a second before he remembered the messengers. They had managed to find someone open, he assumed. There were many nocturnal travelling merchants, it seemed.

"Just a moment!" he called, double checking that the noise hadn't roused Fiorentino as he moved towards the door. He opened it with his usual, welcoming smile, reserved for all except those pesky guards and their troublesome lackeys.

When he saw that it was a guard on his doorstep, his smile dropped.

"How may I help you?"

"We're looking for someone," the man wasted no time in delving into his satchel, slung over the trademark crests and dented armour all guards wore.

"Truly? Who?" _Ezio, perhaps?_

"A man – the assassino. We believe he's responsible for several deaths in the past few days. Here," a small, rolled up poster was shoved into Leonardo's hands, and for appearances sake he opened it and took a quick glance, "If you see him or know where he may be hiding, we ask you to do your civic duty and report him to the guards."

"I will endeavour to try," he said. The moment he went to close the door, a sharp whimper sounded from his workshop table, loud enough for the man to notice and tilt his head inside.

"Un bambino?" he said; "One of our patrols reported a lost child some hours ago. Abducted from their sights, apparently. Would you happen to know anything about this?"

"No. Sounds dreadful."

"Not quite – just another bastardo. But our duties call to keep an eye out for him. They say a young man handed the child in; shoulder length hair, expensive clothes, said to live in a workshop. Not unlike this one." The guard gestured to the quaint little shop, Leonardo's Firenze-based home. "Are you sure you know nothing?"

"I can assure you I know nothing."

"Ah. Well then," he leaned over, a look of surreptitious glee on his face; "Be sure to keep him safe, won't you?"

With that, he was gone. Leonardo let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding, and quickly closed the door in the hopes he wouldn't need to open it again that night.

So, the guards had reported Fiorentino's existence. No doubt the one who had just left had been told the artist turned him in, but for some reason – he refused to believe out of the goodness of his heart – he hadn't bothered confronting him about it. What other explanation was there for an unmarried, well-known artist to suddenly have a child in his workshop?

"There, there, Fee," Leonardo soothed, hurrying over to lift the baby from his basket, "It will be alright. You and I will just have to be careful for a few days, no? The guards will no doubt forget your little appearance, what with Ezio making bigger problems for them."

The child felt light, but warm. He was an anchoring presence. As Leonardo gently moved him to his shoulder, he felt Fiorentino's small mouth open and begin sucking at a small patch on his clothes, no doubt leaving a sheen of drool there for him to worry about later.

"Here." he opened the scroll with one hand, weighing down a furled corner with the nearest box of charcoal. When it was secure, he turned, so that Fiorentino could look over his shoulder and see the picture. "That's Ezio, little one. Soon enough, he will be on all the gossips' lips. If luck permits, he may even come to visit us. I'm sure he will regale you with more tales than I ever could."

Fiorentino's big brown eyes looked down at the hooded figure before him, the shadowed face of his saviour's closest friend, and continued to suck that wet patch into his shoulderpad.


	5. Moments in the Sun

The last of his requests to arrive was the wet nurse. She was a pretty young thing, perhaps his age, maybe a little older; long brown hair hung down to an inch past her shoulders, with her cheap dress bringing more focus to deep, pale blue eyes, the kind that sparked intrigue. Her nose was upturned slightly at the tip, and she raised her head as though she were balancing something on her chin.

"Maestro?" she asked, her voice smooth; "I'm here to feed the baby."

"Yes, yes; come in." He gestured her inside the cooler workshop, for outside the sun was baking every surface it touched. "He's getting rather restless."

Inside, the mess shocked her. Strange contraptions were hung from the ceiling, unfinished pet projects that were suspended by thin string, sometimes twine, and left as though they were ornaments. Leonardo's desk – what she assumed was his desk, since it was covered in paint and charcoal and pieces of paper were strewn about like a child's misplaced toys – made her wonder how the man ever finished his commissions, and when he buckled down to do them, how did he feed himself? The kitchen was a tiny thing, barely big enough for her slim frame to squeeze through. Perhaps it was only to sustain him through periods of intense work?

Through the dim light which her eyes were just adjusting, she heard a little cry. It was Fiorentino, hungry, his little hands waving in the air like a mad preacher. He was still in his basket and still had that blanket draped over him, but now his arms were covered in fine material; a pale blue nightgown, with the matching cap somewhere on the desk.

The nurse went to him, cooing as she lifted him from the basket; "Hush now, little darling. It's time to eat."

Leonardo could just watch with a note of trepidation on his face as she prepared the routine, which seemed to him like a ritual of sorts. He hung back near his desk, observing her walk to the end of the workshop, where she put the baby to her breast and began a strange bounce.

Fiorentino's whimpers were silenced. The air was filled with nothing but the nurse's soft words.

"A healthy baby," she commented to Leonardo; "His head is very round."

"He'll grow into it." The artist said, but in his mind he rumbled; _Of course his head is round – what did you expect it to be, octagonal?_

As she tended to the baby, Leonardo picked up one of his charcoal pieces. The light had fallen on them in such a way that it accentuated the nurse's curves, brought the hourglass figure the dress tried to conceal to notice, and with that suckling babe attached to her breast he thought it was a brilliant practice model. His hands moved and his eyes flicked back and forth from her, transfixed by his art. If she had a problem with it, the nurse said nothing.

Fiorentino was sated after a good long while. The baby must have been starving, she commented, as she lowered him back into his basket and lovingly draped the blanket back into place.

She was paid, and they worked out an agreement where she would arrive every day, three times a day, no matter the weather. Leonardo wondered how he was ever going to get anything done with such a nuisance walking in, but he kept his smile in place; he couldn't very well let Fiorentino go hungry.

They went to the door and the artist opened it for her; "Thank you, Signora…?"

"Please, call me Fillipa."

"Thank you, Fillipa. I will see you again this evening."

When she was gone, he went back to inspect the baby. He looked fine enough. Staring up at him with those eyes, his hands still in the air, but calmer now, subdued even. He must have truly been starving. Leonardo had spent most of the night trying to get him to sleep, or at least entice him into silence with tales of wild adventurers and misshapen foes.

Giving him a hard stare, the artist mumbled; "Your head isn't that round." And lifted him from the basket, patting his back in the way he had seen mothers doing it on the street. Few times, he had been told it was to get wind out from the baby's stomach, trapped there and causing discomfort, though he wasn't quite sure how to do it himself.

He went by Fiorentino's reactions. The baby's head rested on his shoulder, his warm breath against his earlobe, and every time he patted his back he was careful to make sure he was applying just the right force, not enough to hurt him, but not so little that it didn't do anything.

Eventually, he heard a little noise, followed by a pleased gurgle. He turned his head to see Fiorentino's eyelids drooping. The light slanted through the big rectangular window above them and caught his soft features, his round head, and the tufts of fluffy hair that decorated it. In his nightgown, he looked so at peace. It made the artist smile.

"You know, I always thought myself a better friend than a father," he admitted, "Perhaps that's what we will be, yes? Two friends in this strange world together. When we find your mother, I'm sure she will be so glad to have you back. She must miss you terribly."

But Fiorentino had fallen asleep. His soft snores were indication enough that he was no longer listening, having gone to a land Leonardo wished he could go. The baby's hands tightened over a lock of the artist's hair as his mouth opened and closed, like a sucker fish with lips.

Leonardo felt a smile stretch on his face; "Well, I have no idea how you came to be on my doorstep, Fee, but I will do my best to figure it out."

They stood there in silence for a while, the sleeping baby completely at peace on his saviour's shoulder. The artist glanced about his workshop with a contented smile; it seemed more complete, brighter, almost, with the basket on his desk, nestled amongst the charcoal and paints and unfinished sketches.

Then, Fiorentino hiccupped, and Leonardo felt a warm trail begin to ooze down his shoulder. The smile fell into a grimace.

"Well," he said, dreading to look over his shoulder, "I suppose, the good with the bad."


	6. A Walk into the Factions

Life with Fiorentino proved a challenge, but a welcome one.

Leonardo spent his nights tending to the boy's cries, plying him with sweet lullabies and captivating stories that he could never quite be sure he understood, but had faith he did. When he slept soundly, the artist found he could not. It was as if he had lost the ability to rest, his eyes ever drawn to Fee and his soft blue blanket, nuzzled in the humble basket he had arrived in like the world beyond them didn't matter.

It was three days until Leonardo realised he needed a crib. The wet nurse had brought it to his attention on her morning visit, wondering aloud if the boy had a bed other than his basket; something with room to grow, were her exact words.

_Sì, she is right. Fee needs something more permanent than his mother's hand basket. Something handcrafted, perhaps?_

He sketched the crib's design himself, with beautiful depictions of cherubs and floral vines, themselves more like intricate webs that could have been part of a more complicated overall structure. It took him a day to finish the sketch, and he had high hopes that when he found someone to take the commission, they would complete it in no more than a month.

"Take this," he said to the courier, who tucked the design away in a strange leather satchel and listened to Leonardo's words with intent; "Be sure to mention my high price, as well. I want this to be finished as soon as possible."

With a nod of acknowledgement, the courier vanished out the door and into the bright Firenze streets.

The artist smiled. He failed to realise that the crib was perhaps an admission that he had few hopes for finding Fiorentino's mother, and even that he had accepted the child's presence to be a permanent thing. He was on a high – he had rediscovered the flare for his paintings, and although he hadn't broken his habit of procrastination, he was excited to continue on with them. The sight of a paintbrush no longer filled him with dread. Looking at an excellent piece made him enthusiastic for his own, not worry about the competition he faced.

Fiorentino's cries brought him out of his reverie. He turned, smiling brightly, as he hurried over to the infant and plucked him from his bed, noting how he seemed more adept at doing so after three day's practice.

"There, there," he soothed, rubbing circles into the boy's back; "I know just what will cheer you up – a walk in the sun. I'm sure the guards have forgotten about our little escapade."

The baby had taken his own balled up fist into his mouth and was sucking on it, a little river of drool hitting Leonardo's red shirt, but nonetheless he seemed unconcerned with whether or not the guards remembered him.

"Yes, a walk. Let me just get my money pouch and we'll be off."

After placing Fiorentino back in the basket and collecting his things, Leonardo stepped outside the workshop for the first time in three days. The sun was so blinding that he had to shield his eyes. Quickly he pulled the basket's hood further down, careful not to worry the baby with any sudden movements, and then he was walking down the ever bustling streets of Florence, heading straight to the marketplace.

_We must be back before the wet nurse returns, _he thought to himself; _It's far too hot to keep him out for long, anyway._

It was true – the storm a few days prior had given way to an intense heat wave, which now scorched anything that was left too long in the sun. He would make a short trip to collect some supplies and return, he decided. He had much more important things to be doing that day, such as his paintings and the continuing search for Fiorentino's mother, carried out by thieves and a few well-bribed guards.

So many people almost overwhelmed him. There were more on the streets than usual. Some he recognised to be the ladies of noble households, occasionally with their daughters in tow, and they would regard him with a smile when they noticed him holding the baby basket. There was one he noticed in particular – a girl with rosy red cheeks that sat in the shade, fanning herself as she listened to her plainer friend. She was in a more subdued area off to the side, reserved only for those who had succumbed to the heat or been on their feet too long, or perhaps just enjoyed people watching.

He would have loved to paint her. Something about the shading, how her brilliantly green eyes sparkled under the tree's shadow and her blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders like a motionless waterfall; it was captivating. He had never looked at women in the way other men seemed to, and he couldn't quite explain why that was, but he had come to accept that his perception was not concerned with an individual's beauty; instead, it was how everything converged, how the forces worked together to achieve an unobtrusive, almost immaculate harmony.

"Hold on, Fee," he whispered to the basket, where two eyes and a pink face looked at him intently; "We're just going to speak with that girl over there."

The conversation was pleasant. The girl, a Miss Magdalena Zitoni, was flattered that Leonardo thought her worthy of painting, though perhaps she took that to mean more than it did. As she peered into Fiorentino's basket, she cooed at him; the baby mashed his lips together as though untrusting of the new face.

"What's his name?" she asked in a high pitched voice. Leonardo thanked the Gods that portraits didn't speak.

"Fiorentino," he answered, and lifted the basket up a notch in his hand to glance at the boy; "We must really be getting home. He looks hot."

"Nonsense – come, sit with us in the shade. You don't mind, do you, Laura?"

"Not at all," the plainer girl said, her voice cooler and more resigned, "Here; a place beside your newest model."

"I thank you, but-"

"We insist."

There was no polite way to decline them, and so Leonardo inwardly sighed and sat in the new spot, which the plainer girl had shuffled over from to make. It was indeed cooler in the shade. But it was still too hot, which made him worry for the baby that now didn't let his eyes waver from the blonde girl, perhaps confused how a beautiful face could possess such a shrill voice.

"How is it we haven't met before, Maestro?"

"Ah – I spend my time in my workshop."

"With the babe!" the girl laughed as though the very thought was absurd; "Does his mother not take care of him for you? Where is your wife?" her eyes sparkled with interest. It seemed misplaced to Leonardo, but he didn't call attention to it.

"Only recently with Fiorentino, my lady. Most of the time I spend on my commissions," _or, I should spend time on my commissions; _"or designing things. I'm unmarried, you see, and have only my work to preoccupy myself with."

"Then how did you come to have a babe?" the plainer girl's eyes were more guarded, suspicious, as though she suspected him to be the ringleader of some criminal operation involving babies. Either that, or she was thinking he was unchaste, and the baby was a result of some rendezvous that he could not abscond from quickly enough.

"A curious thing, I assure you," and he went into the story of how Fee had been left on his doorstep during the storms, to which both women listened intently.

What he didn't notice, though, as he placed the basket down to speak, was a child's intrigued face peering at it, and quick to see an opportunity.

As he told Laura and Magdalena of Fee's arrival, he turned, keeping the basket in his periphery so he could gesture out to the city beyond. It was then that the crowd became a blur and, in the whirl of drab and dreary clothing, occasionally broken up by a bright dress, the basket was jerked away.

He reared his head back, but the basket was gone. As was the taker, it seemed, since whoever it was had vanished into the crowd and was probably being ushered along by it.

"No!"

The girls turned their head when Leonardo sprang up and began to push through the crowd. They, spurred on by his sudden urgency, stood too, and followed him in his attempt to find the baby, no longer on the status of strangers but joining to become an amateur rescue team.

"There!" Laura said, pointing to a small peasant making off down an alley; "She has the basket!"

Leonardo pushed through the crowd, for once immune to the indignant glares around him, and charged off after her. For a small girl, she was quick. And she must have had some background knowledge of the city's layout, for she swerved and darted through alleys far too hidden for the artist to have noticed himself, almost like an assassin would navigate the rooftops.

"Aspetta! Stop!" he cried, but the girl kept up her pace. She was barefooted with dirty blonde hair, he noted, in case she managed to get away, and clad in a small tattered dress, white now stained grey.

He was quickly running out of breath. Shocked bystanders leapt out of their way as he raced after her, not sure what had become of Magdalena and Laura by this point. Soon enough the girl must have made an error; she skidded to a halt at a dead end, clutching the basket in her hand as her mouth fell open in a gape.

Leonardo propped himself up against the wall with one hand, his other arm wrapped around his torso as he caught his breath. He was not a fit man. His was of a cerebral nature, not a physical one.

The girl turned. Her face was dirty, plastered with soot, and her eyes were a deep blue, almost like two sapphires were glaring at him. Her nose was dainty and her hair fell on her forehead as though dead. She was a pretty child – but nevertheless, a thief and a kidnapper.

"Give me the baby." He demanded, holding out his hand.

The shade from the wall was thrown over them, bringing out the abandoned houses that stood at either side, their walls crumbling in absence of carers. The girl looked at the basket with a hint of sadness on her face. Inside, Leonardo could hear crying, and that only fuelled his demand more.

"I only wanted to play with him," she said, voice small; "I can take him to other children, other people."

"There's no need for that. Give him to me."

"We can teach him."

"Little one," another voice entered the air, this one shrill, and Leonardo didn't need to look behind him to know Laura and Magdalena were there; "You've no right to take that baby, no matter how good your intentions. Give him back to the Maestro."

"But-"

"No – no buts now. Do as you're told."

The women would make good mothers, Leonardo thought. Their tone, though firm, was affectionate, which showed in the girl's face. Obviously unused to being told what to do, she stepped forward with the crying Fiorentino and handed him to the proffered hand, which soon retracted so the man could check him over.

"There," Magdalena's shadow passed over them, but the artist never looked up. He was too concerned with looking at that crying face, which now seemed to calm when it caught sight of him, the shiny pink bottom lip quivering and jutting out as Leonardo said soothing words. "Taking a baby is a very serious crime, little one. If the guards had found you, they would not have been so kind."

"If the guards had found me, stealing a baby is the least of my worries," she shot back.

Laura was the next to speak; "Nevertheless, you did the right thing. Now go home to your mother, and try not to take anyone else's child."

Leonardo didn't catch what was said after. His eyes were riveted on the little Fiorentino, whose tiny hand reached out as if searching for something, and grabbed a lock of his hair. Too young to smile, instead he gave a pleased gurgle.

It was Magdalena and Laura who helped him home, who sat with him when the wet nurse arrived and relayed everything to her, but it was Fiorentino who stopped his heart hammering in his chest.


	7. In Sickness and in Health

As the months went on, so did Leonardo see his leads run dry. The thieves had not reported any children missing; the courtesans were, as always, secretive of their girls, but firm that none of them had recently given birth; the mercenaries told him no, any children they had were welcomed and cherished for the natural fighters they would grow to be.

The artist felt a mixture of relief and anxiety. Fiorentino was good company, though unable to talk, and now that he had just entered teething stages and was practicing to crawl, somehow it only made Leonardo more protective of him. They would sit on the ground on occasion – Fee much bigger than he was when he first arrived, but still as light as a feather – and he would watch as the infant tried to navigate his legs and hands, tried to get them to work together so he could move without restriction.

Magdalena sat in front of him one day, posing for a portrait he was just sketching out, when he first noticed Fiorentino's odd mood. He had left the crib in the workshop for the morning as it was heavy to move, and the infant had not so much as gurgled since he was put inside.

"He seems quite quiet today," the girl mentioned, her green eyes inquisitive; "Is he alright?"

Leonardo glanced over. The baby was laying in his crib, not yet alive with teething pains, and something told him not everything was how it appeared.

Placing lead rod on the overcrowded table beside him, Leonardo replied, "I'm not sure," before he moved to check. On instinct, his hand went to Fiorentino's forehead.

It was burning hot.

"Oh!" he pulled back his hand as though burnt; "He's unwell. Very unwell."

Magdalena was up in a flash, ignoring the fact they would have to carefully reposition her as she went to check the sick boy. As if she didn't believe him, she checked Fee's head for herself.

"A perfectly normal thing, if unpleasant," she assured, but her voice was grave. She had seen sickness take children before; sickness that was routine, necessary, yet almost like a challenge to test the baby's strength.

"I'm sending for a dottore." Leonardo moved to the workbench, where he had a stack of paper now reserved for letters and requests. "If there is something we can do, I want to know."

The letter, which was taken through the sunny, heaving street to the nearest courier office, was brief and to the point. A doctor was to come to Leonardo's workshop for a good price and check Fiorentino, see if there was anything to be done about his sudden illness.

"It will be alright," Leonardo reassured the boy, lifting his almost limp body from the crib and holding him to his shoulder; "Nothing is the matter, Fee. All will be well."

He turned his head to look into the brown eyes, usually so alight with curiosity, but now dull and in pain. His tiny mouth opened and closed as though thirsty, but when Magdalena brought him water it came back up as a fluid-like sick.

Sick which managed to get all over the newest commission sketches, Leonardo noticed.

A doctor arrived some hours later, and his verdict was that he had a bad illness – something that caused vomiting – but, with the proper care, he would live. The strange beaked man made Fiorentino cry, perhaps frightened of mortality, though the artist realised children's minds were not as advanced and the sight may have just shocked him.

"What must we do?" he asked. His eyes never left Fee's reddened face.

"Water – he'll need lots of water. Bed rest has proven to help. Other than that, he is in God's hands."

Leonardo shuddered to think what 'God' would have done with a bastardo. If he was leaving it in His hands, perhaps it was best just to say his goodbyes.

"Surely there must be more?" he urged; "More we can do for him?" the baby wriggled uncomfortably as the doctor prodded him, eyes uncertain, but Magdalena was quick to calm him down and assure him the man was no villain, just strangely dressed.

"No, there is nothing else you can do. Are you the mother?"

The doctor looked up at Magdalena. His question was more because both of them had blond hair, and it seemed that young Fiorentino was going to sprout dark, almost black locks when the downy tufts were gone. In his years of studying medicine, he had noticed a slight correlation between parent's hair colours and children's hair colours.

"No," she replied; "I'm but a friend, and a model for Maestro's artwork."

"Where is the child's mother?"

"Not here," Leonardo gave him a quick explanation, and then went back to the important point; "Is there truly nothing we can do?"

The doctor gave the child a sceptical look; "He is in God's hands now."

A few hours later, Leonardo found himself alone with Fee, staring at him through the fine wood bars of his crib as the child fought back the illness. He cared not for whether he would get sick too. It seemed heartless and illogical to leave the boy he had invested so much time in, and it made his own heart constrict when he thought of the pain he must be going through.

"You have faced all odds to find yourself with me," he mumbled, "Come, now – you must fight back. Mother or not, I'm still here to care for you. And I do care for you. So you must fight, Fee, and come back from wherever you are."

Fiorentino was bigger, and his head slowly becoming less round as time went on, fitting with his pudgy body that was rife with baby fat. He looked the picture of health. But Leonardo could see the differences; the way he balled up his fist and kept his at the bridge of his nose; the way he kicked his feet as though attacking an enemy, murmuring in his sleep: the boy was sick, but he had yet to die.

"Little Fee," the artist leaned forward and put his hand in the crib. Instantly, a small set of fingers clasped around him own, five only just big enough to fit around his index, and pained brown eyes looked up at him as the baby whimpered something that may have been a cry.

"Sleep now, little one. I'll be here for when you wake." He saw the eyes move to him, and said out of habit; "I promise."

It was then that Fiorentino fell into a fitful sleep, and Leonardo made good on his promise. Throughout the night he didn't move, not even to finish his commission sketches, or to memorise the portrait he had been working on.

The moon's thin rays slanted through the window, giving a silvery glow to the sick baby, and making him look ethereal in the dim light.


	8. A Slow Crawl to Destiny

Fiorentino did recover, and quickly at that, spurred on by Leonardo's constant encouragement and attention to his needs. Soon enough the baby was back to his normal self, sitting on the floor as his saviour went about the delicate touches to his artwork, never making too much noise until it was time to eat or be changed.

Leonardo was met with unsurprising news the same day that he completed Magdalena's portrait – the last lead for Fee's mother had been followed. It looked promising at first, taking the mercenary he'd hired to the countryside where he met an unmarried peasant girl, herself admitting to have abandoned a baby some months before. When the news came back that her baby had been a girl and was taken to a church, it seemed all was lost for Fiorentino's reunion.

"Ah," the artist sighed as he turned the letter over in his hand, "A fine attempt, at least. We followed everything to the letter, and still found nothing. Can you believe it, Fee? Someone just vanishing without a trace."

The baby paid him no mind. He was too busy trying to practice crawling, and to avoid the long legs of the easel he had tumbled into so many times.

"Maledizonie."

It was a soft curse, brought on more by weariness than upset. Leonardo liked the baby. He was proud to be his carer, even though the work was often tiresome and always thankless, and people stared at them together like something didn't match. Whenever Fee made another lurch towards a milestone, he felt his heart burst with pride, like a candle had been held too long against a thermometer.

Rubbing his forehead, the artist regarded his companion with tired eyes. He hadn't slept in two days, what with constant fussing over Fiorentino and the baby's late night crying, combined with the need to finish his commissions before the deadlines hit. His procrastination before Fee arrived had come back to haunt him.

Still, he found excuses to dawdle.

"What are we to do with you, then?" he asked, the child looking up at him as he chewed at a small spoon left over from Leonardo's breakfast. "There's nowhere else for you to go, we've proven that much. The guards would only treat you as a baby born out of wedlock."

His fingers moved down to his eyes, encouraging life back into them by rubbing gentle circles, hoping the blood would be stimulated enough to move. He was only glad the wet nurse hadn't commented on it. She was due to return soon, he remembered, to give Fiorentino his lunch.

"Why did your mother leave you here?" he draped an arm across the back of his chair, leaning his head down on it until it was almost perfectly horizontal. It was a question he had asked himself many times. The fat baby in front of him, smiling now, was not a deficient child, had nothing wrong with him apart from a slightly more rounded head at birth, which had quickly corrected itself as he got older. No; Leonardo still claimed it was a mistake.

Fee's pudgy hands came up to his pale cheeks. His brown eyes now darted like a normal infant, but they always came back to Leonardo, always looking at him to make certain he was there, and then began their wild dance around the room again.

It was then that the artist realised that he had more or less adopted the boy. Magdalena had commented about it during the last week she was there – Fiorentino seemed to have accepted the workshop as his home, not questioned it with cries or whimpers, and in doing so had grown strong in Leonardo's care. He was eight months old now, he suddenly thought. For eight months, the artist had been caring for a child that wasn't his.

"Well, it would be heartless to send you to an orphanage," he murmured, going back to his sketches, "and I have no love for the church, either. Babies there are raised devout, but on too strict a routine. No. I suppose you'll have to stay here."

Fiorentino must have sensed something shift in the air. The baby abandoned his toy and fixed his saviour with an almost confused stare, a frown heavy on his face, brow furrowing as though in thought.

Leonardo looked up to see him roll onto his stomach. The floor was much cleaner now, swept up of things that Fee may have otherwise swallowed, and the stone under his thin blanket was cold.

"What are you doing?" he laughed; "Sit back up."

But Fee was on a mission. The infant tested the ground with his tiny fat hands, raising his entire body up on them like a miniature push up, before he bents his knees, placing them in a way that would no doubt snag if he were in his nightgown and not the shorter, more heat friendly baby gown.

Slowly, testing his strength, he moved one hand out. It slapped on the ground like a fly swat against a wall, and following it came the supporting knee. It was slow, it was deliberate and it was wobbly, but it was certain.

Leonardo slipped from his chair mesmerised. Without thinking he fell to one knee, leaning forward to clasp his hand around the other as he watched Fee crawl. He had always thought crawling was a sign of weakness; something cowards did to their enemies. But there, with that child in white making unsteady progress towards him, he quickly changed his mind.

It seemed like minutes passed before the artist was holding his hands out, Fee so very close to them that he was almost in his grasp. Golden sunlight filtered through the window and drenched them in its glow, causing the dust motes to circulate in the air like flecks of angel dust, and the pair to be highlighted by a sort of Heavenly silhouette.

"That's it, Fee," he encouraged with his face stretched into a grin; "Keep going – you're almost there."

In a few seconds, the child was being picked up by Leonardo's hands, whose thumbs could touch across his chest when lifted from under his arms. The artist let out a whoop of delight.

"Ben fatto!" he cheered as he lowered the baby to his hip; "Marvellous, Fee! Truly marvellous!"

The door swung open at that time, revealing behind it the wet nurse and her amiable smile. She caught the pair just as Leonardo revealed his open-mouthed smile, and her puzzled look made him explain.

"Fillipa, the most wonderful thing just happened! Fee crawled!" he exclaimed and let loose a happy laugh. The wet nurse, Fillipa, walked forward with smiling eyes.

"Truly?" she said; "A tad earlier than most, but my!"

As she praised the smiling Fiorentino, Leonardo glanced around his workshop; at the easels and the half-completed paintings that lined the walls; the long and narrowed table with sharp edges and the boxes of supplies; even the kitchen, where he kept dangerous scalpels and cutting knives.

"It's just as well he can crawl," Fillipa said, "Perhaps I could bring my son over and they can entertain each other while you work, Maestro."

"Hm? Please, Fillipa – Leonardo will do. And yes, if that will keep him preoccupied. But, ah…"

With his free hand, he gestured to the room.

"I've only just realised I may need to make this place a little bit safer."


	9. Living Legend

After a year of listening to his epic adventures, to the tales of deeds both dangerous and impossible, Fiorentino finally met the legend his saviour had spoken of.

It was raining, such as on the night he came to be in Leonardo's care, and the now one-year-old infant had been busy trying to climb over the new defences around the workshop. His curious mind wanted – no, needed – to get to the boxes the artist wouldn't let him have, if only to see what all the fuss was about.

"Fee, no." he heard a familiar, exasperated voice, imbued with affection; "Will you come away from there? I built them to keep you in one place."

Theirs was a quiet life. Leonardo preferred to stay out of the public eye, far away from scrutiny so he was the only influence to his paintings, and he kept Fiorentino with him in this self-exclusion. The boy had learnt to occupy himself. There was always a wealth of things to do in the workshop, such as trying to climb over the high walls of the baby pen, or standing on his small unsteady feet to peer at whatever his saviour was working on.

Today, it was different.

"More rain?" Leonardo sighed, hearing the water hit his windows in little pellets. He placed the paint down to the side of him, unfinished work left to dry, and looked back at the rectangular window above, which was clearly splattered by rain. He glanced at Fee. "Not unlike the rain I found you in, hm? Let's hope there are no more babies who need a home."

Fiorentino did not understand, but grinned like a madman anyway. Leonardo's voice had always managed to coax smiles from him.

The artist went on; "No news of Ezio from the guards, I've noticed. They never could catch him. I suspect they've either given up or are trying to keep everything he's doing quiet."

Again, the boy said nothing. It occurred to Leonardo that he had told Fee much of Ezio's conquests, perhaps more than a baby should know, and definitely more than any civilian. How he was grateful for someone to discuss it with though, his continuing fears for his friend's safety.

"If that man hadn't been through such injustice, I would have told him to quit long ago. In fact, perhaps when he first came through my door. He's in danger, Fee. Constant, never-ending danger. I shudder to think how he sleeps at night, knowing all of Firenze seems to be after him."

Fiorentino's eyes had caught something in the window; a shadow, it looked like, but denser than any shadow he had ever seen. He was rooted to it as Leonardo carried on talking, the artist's hands busy with some sketch or other, and his voice soon became a drone in the background. The shadow moved again. Fee watched it.

The noise he made when the shadow disappeared caught Leonardo's attention. He looked at the child, who had now drawn his balled up fist to his mouth to suck at the knuckles, and followed his eyes to look at the rain-splattered window above them. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary – rain in late summer, but Fee had no concept of its strangeness.

"What is it, Fee? Did something frighten you?" the artist moved to pluck him from the ground. He was heavier now, he noted, still riddled with baby fat and innocent smiles.

A rapping sounded at their door, followed by quiet, and then another rapping. Whoever was on the other side of it was trying to be discreet, but urgent. Who would be fool enough to walk in the rain? Apart from Fillipa, who they weren't expecting to arrive for at least another hour.

"Who could that be?" he placed Fiorentino back down in the pen, on the off chance their caller was dangerous; "You wait here, Fee. Be good. Don't try to climb out, now."

Creeping towards the door, Leonardo reached for the handle and took a deep breath. He had no idea if there was a guard or a desperate buyer on the other side, but with Ezio back in town, anything was possible. He had been on edge for months.

With a final pause, Leonardo twisted the knob and the door swung open.

There, standing in the rain, hood up and face mostly shrouded in shadow, was Ezio Auditore.

"Leonardo!" he cheered, pulling the man in front an embrace as he was ushered into the workshop; "It's so good to see you! Tell me; how goes things?"

"Very well. Yes, I have a new assistant now; Vincenzo. And a…well, see for yourself."

He ignored the fact Ezio was holding something in his hand to lead him to the play pen, where Fiorentino had pulled himself to his feet and was trying to climb over the walls.

"I told you to stay there, Fee," the artist chuckled as he picked the child up. With a smile, he turned to show Ezio his new companion, so long having found him on his doorstep. "Ezio, meet Fiorentino; an addition to my workshop."

The assassin peered at him with curious eyes. He had expected a lot of things in Leonardo's space – strange equipment, mostly, and half-finished projects that he noticed were strung up to the ceilings – but what he hadn't expected was a live, moving, drooling baby.

"Un bambino," he said, dumbfounded and confused.

"Yes. He was left here a year ago, and I've had him ever since."

Without thinking, Ezio reached out and took the child from Leonardo's hold. He peered at him as though facing a complex puzzle, noting that he was wearing a strange blue overall thing that covered his feet (one of Leonard's many designs), and watched as Fee's bottom lip jutted out and he glanced anxiously from stranger to artist.

"He's lighter than he looks."

"It's baby fat, I assure you."

"Did you search for his mother?"

"Every lead I had," the artist sighed; "She was nowhere to be found."

"Why did you not turn him over to the guards?"

"I tried. They planned to…" his voice dropped to a whisper, "They were going to murder him, Ezio. For being a bastardo. How could I have walked away and done nothing?"

There was a soft look in Leonardo's eyes, affectionate, even, as he looked at Fee in Ezio's hands, dangled by the assassin from under his arms so he had a better view of his face. He knew exactly what would have become of that child if he had walked away. It made his stomach twist just to think of it.

"Here, that's not a comfortable way to hold him."

Ezio's arms were moved until they sat in an arc, and the not-quite-crying Fiorentino was slipped into the space it created. The assassin watched as two brown eyes looked up at him, big and wide, with a river of water building up on the bottom eyelid.

"There we go," the artist smiled, "Much better."

"Grazie, Leonardo, but I think he wants you."

"He's just unused to you, Ezio. Give him a while and he will change his tune. Now; did you have anything for me?" he eyed the paper in his hand, now flat against Fiorentino's fat outer thigh.

"Ah, yes, I have a Codex page," as he passed the page over, he was careful not to let the baby fall; "I thought, since you helped me with the last one-"

"Excellent! These are quite fascinating. But it may take me a while to decipher. Are you prepared to wait?"

"Yes, yes; as long as you need." Ezio glanced down at Fee, noticing the water had drained off and now he was staring without restraint. What a wonder it was to be a baby, with no sense of personal boundaries or social conventions. "I should like to get to know the little one who's stolen my friend's heart."

"Ah, you should wait until he wakes me up in the middle of the night," the artist joked as he unfurled the page on his desk, arms careful to clear away some of the artistic debris; "Once the rain's cleared up, I'll have Vincenzo set up some training dummies for you. Oh, and…" he gestured to the kitchen; "You can put your blades there. I'm nervous about sharp things around Fee."

_Fiorentino,_ Ezio thought as he unhooked the weapons; _Leonardo never ceases to surprise me._


	10. Peaceful is the Study Room

The rain stopped some time during Leonardo's studies.

Fillipa came and went, undeterred by the strange man's presence, and left the artist to his work. Every now and again he became aware of a high pitched giggling from inside the play pen, but then he came across another fascinating code and he was lost once more.

It was only when Vincenzo announced his arrival that the painter was brought out of his trance. He realised strong sunlight was washing over his workshop, and he hadn't heard Fiorentino's laugh in a very long while.

"Oh, there you are!" he greeted his assistant, a young man who wore his brown hair in a dead-straight style, his clothes modest but strong and his mind alert, "Will you go and set up some dummies for my friend to practice on? The yard should do."

"Sì, Maestro. Will there be anything else?"

Waving him off, Leonardo took care not to look at the Codex page again. If he did, he ran the risk of going back into a trance, one he wouldn't come out of until he had unlocked the ancient secrets that little passage held. No. He had other things to do; things such as find out where Ezio and Fiorentino had gone.

The pair were not where he had left them the night before. The play pen was empty save a few toys, many of them well-chewed and still with sheens of spittle to decorate them, and Leonardo was quick to rove over where else in the shop they could have gone to. There were rooms above the workshop; a bedroom, a rudimentary bathroom, a small cupboard he had yet to fill with anything but failed paintings, and a smaller study, which he intended to convert into Fiorentino's bedroom when the boy was old enough.

_Perhaps they went exploring? _Leonardo thought as he made his way towards the stairs; _Ezio hasn't been here many times, and Fee probably got restless in his pen. That must be it. That boy; if he could walk, I don't know how I would cope._

When he reached the second floor, he noticed all the doors were shut, save one. His bedroom door was ajar and he could make out through the tiny crack a figure, hooded head slouched forward in the chair he kept beside his bed, hands clasped together as though in prayer.

Leonardo pushed the door open gently. It moved forward without so much as a creak to reveal the room; Ezio had fallen asleep, upright in the chair, which was positioned beside a beige double-bed littered by leather-bound books, itself beside a small box where the artist kept his clothes. At the end of it was Fee's crib, but it looked empty, and Leonardo couldn't help the stab of panic that attacked his heart.

But when he looked up, he needn't have worried.

On the bed, nestled between the clutter, was Fiorentino. The boy's arms were raised up until they reached his face, and one of his hands was pressed to the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut. His head was turned to the side to face Ezio, like he had been listening to a story before he fell asleep.

Leonardo smiled – he begun to realise what had happened.

Fee had a tendency to fall asleep sitting up when he was exhausted; his head would start to slouch forward and his eyelids would droop, until he regained composure for a brief moment and started the cycle again. He must have started to do it last night on the stone, and Ezio brought him upstairs to save his friend any further hassle.

"Tranquillo, Fee," he soothed as he gently picked the baby up; "All will be well once we have you in your crib."

The eyelids fluttered but did not open. A small hand reached out to pull at Leonardo's hair, and the artist was careful to extract it when he placed the child in his crib.

"Sleep well, little one."

Fiorentino stirred, and stilled again. There was a moment when the artist thought he might wake up. It was early morning, he noted, and in the early morning Fee had become somewhat of a bell tower, waking him when he was hungry, but it seemed his usually alert little companion was too tired to move. He had played most of the night with a man unfamiliar to him. It would wear even the most hyperactive boys out.

A sudden, sharp blade appeared at Leonardo's throat, grazing the thin skin that shielded his jugular as a hand came to rest on his stomach and restrain him. For the artist's part, he stood very, very still.

"Is this how you greet friends?" his tone was light, but there was a hint of fear there.

"Leonardo! I apologise," Ezio said, sheathing his hidden blade with but a flick of the wrist; "I saw someone standing over Fee's crib and my reflexes responded before my brain could."

The artist waved him off with a smile on his face; "It's quite alright, Ezio. Come; let's leave him to his dreams."

They left the room, and behind them they could hear a faint gurgle, but no cry. Just for good measure they waited until they were in the workshop to speak again, which was when Leonardo told his friend of the dummies being set up in the yard, and when he mentioned his progress with the Codex page was slower than he thought.

"I may not be able to get it finished for a while."

"Take all the time you need, Leonardo."

"In any case, I doubt it will take much longer than today, if that. Thank you for taking care of Fee for me. I would never have come as far as I have if it weren't for that," the artist smiled up at him as he took his place again, prepared for another study session. He had no doubt Vincenzo would alert him should the baby wake up.

Ezio gave his own smile; "He is a lively boy, my friend. You have a fine son."

"Son?" he chuckled, "I'm not his father, Ezio. Merely his friend."

"A friend who does so much for him." His voice was sceptical.

"Perhaps I am a better friend than most, but a friend all the same."

"Leonardo, do you not want for children?"

"I…it's something I haven't given much thought to."

"Then forgive me for thinking you as Fiorentino's father, but that's what you are."

Leonardo, despite his unease, smiled as he looked at his work. "There are worse children to become fathers to."

"Maestro?"

They turned to see Vincenzo standing in the doorway, a look of hesitation on his face.

"Forgive me for interrupting, but the dummies are ready."

Ezio moved forward. As he went, he clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder, his smile broad and genuine.

"I will be back in a few hours, my friend. Try not to get lost in the page."


	11. No Mountain too Great

A thump upstairs had Leonardo snapping out of his reverie. Quiet followed, the air heavy, when a soft, almost inaudible cry could be heard, the sort of sound that would be completely covered in a busy street.

"Fee?" the artist sprang from his workshop table and went to the stairs, but Vincenzo beat him to it.

"Please, Maestro – allow me."

There was no chance to protest before the boy had vanished. Leonardo, not one to reprimand someone, stood at the bottom, fearing the worst as he glanced up the seemingly endless steps that not moments ago had been normal size. His heart thrummed against his chest; it seemed louder than the cry itself.

After what seemed to be an age but couldn't have been more than a few seconds, Vincenzo's shadowed silhouette appeared at the top, with an extremely distressed Fiorentino in arm.

"What happened?" Leonardo basically pulled the child from his assistant's arm. It was good that Vincenzo knew him so well; he took no offence, and made no face at him as he began to scan the boy for damage.

"He was lying on the floor by his crib, Maestro. I think he must have climbed out of it."

A large, angry red mark was forming on Fee's forehead as though to back up Vincenzo's claim, and without thinking Leonardo put a gentle kiss to it, just as his mother had when he hurt himself as a boy. It was the first time the artist had kissed him, either as a greeting or in comfort, and Fiorentino's sobs instantly quietened to mere whimpers against his saviour's shoulder.

"There, there, Fee; it's alright now. Are you hurt?"

No response, but then Leonardo hadn't expected one. Fiorentino made a collection of sounds to any conversation presented to him, and always seemed to listen when being spoken to, as though storing away information so he could reference back to it when he finally talked. Now, though, those sounds were just whimpers, and his head nuzzled into the warm and familiar neck of the artist.

"My nephew did it quite often, Maestro," Vincenzo interjected, his tone respectful and hesitant, meant only to put him at ease; "They have no concept of danger, living in a world where there isn't mortality, just existence. If they see a mountain, they have no fear to climb it."

_An astute observation from an assistant, _Leonardo thought as he gave a gentle nod, nuzzling back into Fee's downy hair; _Perhaps there's hope for the man yet._

An unpleasant smell hit him moments after the shock of the encounter wore off, and Vincenzo offered to deal with it so the artist could get back to his work. A twinge of guilt caught him by surprise as he passed the baby over. Fiorentino looked at him with a mixture of trust and affection, so rife within a boy too young to fully comprehend them, which made him want to call his assistant back and deal with the matter himself. But Vincenzo was right. Ezio's Codex page could not wait forever, and Fee would still be there when the assassin left.

Powering through the last strands of the sequence proved challenging, but not challenge enough. It was defeated like any great warrior would defeat a foe. Leonardo resisted the urge to yell in victory, for Fiorentino was now in his play pen attempting to walk and he'd no wish to scare the boy.

"Could you call Ezio in for me, please?" he asked Vincenzo, who had already made his way to the door; "Tell him I'm finished."

The door opened and closed behind him, and the pool of light it brought in quickly vanished.

Leonardo took the moment of peace to look at his 'son.' Fee's face was scrunched in concentration, his brow furrowed, a small pink tongue poking through his lips and licking absently at a sore spot in the corner of his mouth. Clutching at the play pen's walls, he was putting on foot in front of the other, and the sight brought so much joy to Leonardo's heart that he thought it might burst and kill him.

"Ben fatto, Fee – soon, you won't need that wall to walk."

The child looked up at him and must have registered his praise, for a wide grin spread across his face to reveal his small, tooth-pick like teeth. It brought another smile to the artist. It seemed that whenever he was around Fiorentino, smiles were easy to come by.

"You have the Codex page?"

The voice interrupted their moment and Leonardo, eager to show his work, couldn't find the heart to mourn it. As they spoke about the new design – something simple, but effective – he could see Fee practicing in the periphery of his vision, and the boy's movements eventually caught Ezio's notice too.

The assassin turned, his hood down to reveal neat, medium length hair, tied back with a red ribbon, and his deep brown eyes that seemed to go on for miles. When he saw Fee walking, albeit unsteadily, the corners of his mouth tugged in a little, genuine smile.

"What a proud father he will make you, Leonardo." He commented.

"Perhaps," the artist laughed, still nervous with the title 'father;' "If you have a chance, come back to see us soon. I'm sure he will have mastered it by then."

"I need to get some information, so I may find myself here for a while. Do you know anything about a Francesco de Pazzi?"

The artist thought for a moment, searching his mind. The name was familiar, but he couldn't say he had heard much more about the man other than rumours and the occasional news. He had never met him, and if any of the stories were true he never wanted to.

"No. But I may know someone who might."

"Who?"

Leonardo took a breath, speaking in a whisper; "La Volpe."

"La Volpe?"

"Shh!" the artist pulled him away, out of the child's earshot, and lowered his voice even more; "We mustn't speak of him too loudly; his work is delicate and secretive. But if I send you anywhere, it's to him."

"Why is he so high in your esteem?"

"The Fox sees all and hears everything, Ezio. Go to him and he can give you what you're looking for. But, I implore you, be careful about it."

The assassin, touched by his friend's concern, nodded, and cast one more glance at Fiorentino. He noticed that the child hadn't even turned to look at them and was still concentrated on his walking, which for a moment caused a green vein of envy to creep through his heart. How he longed to go back to a time where all was simple.

"Grazie, Leonardo. I will go to him. Keep an eye on your boy, yes? He will have you running after him in no time."

"Trust me, Ezio," the artist gave a great sigh, affectionate if weary; "I know."


	12. The Young Affiliations

The first signs of turmoil on the streets came soon after Fillipa arrived, and it was only when a messenger appeared that they learnt what had happened.

The Medici family had been attacked.

Leonardo sensed the coming riots with the same intuition he sensed a bad painter, quick to collect some of Fiorentino's things and issue the wet nurse with a set of instructions. The workshop around them seemed to lose all sense of peace as the people outside went mad, like sheep bleating after a crazed shepherd.

"You're sure your home is safe?" Leonardo asked the wet nurse. He tried not to look into Fee's frightened eyes, which glimmered with unshed tears as both artist and woman prepared for an amateur evacuation.

"My husband took it because of how isolated it is, Maestro," Fillipa assured; "Were it not safe I would never raise my son there. Fiorentino will be quite secure with us."

With a quick nod, the painter dared to let his gaze fall, meeting almost immediately with the watery brown eyes of his young companion. They begged for answers, begged for him to make the people outside stop shrieking and shouting bloody murder, but Leonardo, helpless as he was, could only offer a weak smile of comfort.

"Fillipa will take you somewhere quiet, Fee," he promised, voice soft as he planted a small kiss on the boy's downy hair, "I have to stay here and wait for Ezio. Be safe, won't you?"

When the nurse turned, baby slung over her shoulder so he could look back at his rescuer, he whimpered. Two tiny hands stretched forward as they moved to the back exit, hidden behind two long canvases he had yet to paint on.

"M-M-M…" Fee mumbled, "M-M-M…"

Fillipa stroked soothing circles into his back, "Hush, darling. You'll see him again. But now he has to protect you, and this is the only way."

Leonardo could only watch as the nurse opened the heavy iron door, walked through it, and let it shut behind her. His last sight was Fiorentino's upset eyes, the constant mantra of 'M' on his lips even when the door was closing; when he could no longer see him, the artist mused he carried on his chant.

Outside, it looked as though the entire world had caved in on itself. Men were divided between who was right, those that applauded anarchy against those who were loyal to the Medici, causing clashes in the street where not yesterday the artist had purchased a brand new set of oil paints. Leonardo didn't have to think too hard to know that Ezio was involved. He almost regretted sending the man after La Volpe, but he had no doubts that he would have found him of his own accord.

Vincenzo had gone home to protect his family. He had been hesitant, of course, determining whether or not he would stand beside his employer or risk dying on the street to reach his loved ones, and in the end it was Leonardo who urged him to go. The assistant would never forget his kindness, nor would his mother, who would have seen many thieves pouring through her house had her son not arrived to help her.

_Where are the guards? _He thought to himself as he began to hide his valuables, putting them in pockets hidden to the untrained eye; _Where are they in this madness? Has law and order broken down? Il mio Dio – please, just let Fee be safe._

It was hard to be away from him when there was such lunacy on the streets. He'd no doubt men were taking advantage of the situation to cover up their misdeeds, but how far would these acts go? Would they try to abduct Fillipa and leave Fiorentino helpless and alone? Would they kill him to parade his body as another failing of Medici nobility? Or would someone from his past come and steal him away, murder the nurse if they had to, and Leonardo would be left to wonder what had happened to him?

_No; keep a level head. Fiorentino will be fine. Fillipa is more resourceful than she looks. Stay calm, Leonardo – for his sake, keep your sanity._

When his door began to rattle and shake with the force of someone banging on it, the artist prepared for the worst. He had no idea who could have been on the other side – petty thieves, mercenaries or simple thugs; there was no way of knowing – but he was accepting of his fate as he began to unlock it, knowing that his most valuable possession was safe.

His heart pounded in his ribcage as each lock snapped open. His hand, usually so steady, was shaking so hard he could barely hold the handle. With a deep breath, he swung it open, ready to face whatever was out there.

It took him a moment to register Ezio on the other side.

The assassin was quicker than Leonardo's brain, for he slid through the opening and slammed the door shut again in a matter of seconds, giving the artist a glimpse of the calamity outside. Bloodied faces and furious men peppered the streets, and his heart stuttered when he thought of Fee in the middle of it all.

"What happened?" the artist asked, brain jolted by the image to rush after his friend; "I was worried!"

"The Pazzi tried to assassinate Lorenzo. They managed to kill his brother, but I think he may be alright."

"An assassination? On the Medici? Mio Dio; no wonder the streets are in chaos."

Ezio collapsed on the first seat he came across, obviously exhausted. The artist could only imagine what he had been through since their encounter but a few hours before, and it made him wonder at the life his friend must have led, living in the shadows in a hunt for revenge.

"I have another page," he sounded out of breath; "I hoped you could decipher it for me."

"Yes, of course."

Leonardo took the aged paper out of his hand and began to analyse it on his desk, losing himself to a world only the most educated men could go. It was a solitary place meant for intelligent minds; a place they could mould to their will, and discover things yet unknown to mankind. Ezio had always wondered how his friend could go there so easily, but then his mind began wandering to the dying chaos outside, and he became aware of an absence.

"Where is Fiorentino?" he asked, noticing a jerk in Leonardo's shoulders.

"I sent him with the nurse for safety. It's far too dangerous here."

"You let him on the streets with a nurse?!"

"I have no doubt Fillipa will do her utmost to protect him, and she's not an imbecile when it comes to the streets. She knows the safe routes."

In the cool darkness of the workshop, Ezio listened as the noise outside began to hush, and then silence completely. It was as if everyone had grown bored with fighting and fled home. His friend, so absorbed in his studies, seemed agitated, and the assassin felt a stab of sympathy for him as he glanced at the empty play pen.

"Leonardo," he said, voice gentle as he leaned forward; "I don't think Firenze will be a safe place in the coming years. There's much change on the horizon."

The artist glanced at him, "What are you saying, Ezio?"

"Fee is young, and if the guards are as brutal to him as they were to you he'll never stand a chance."

"Why would the guards persecute him? He has no place in this madness. He's not responsible for what we as men fight over."

"But if they think you're involved in any way with the assassins, I fear they may target him in an attempt to cripple us. Leonardo, I'm going to propose something to you, and I implore you to think it through before you answer."

The way Ezio's voice dropped into quiet solemnity made the artist nervous. What could he suggest for Fee? What could he suggest for someone who was not yet old enough to talk?

"What's that, my friend?" he asked, struggling to keep the guarded tone out of his voice.

"He's too young yet, but when Fiorentino turns four I think he should train as an assassin."

"What?" horror marred Leonardo's kind face; "You can't be-"

"The only way I can assure you his safety is if he can defend himself. It's not a desirable solution, I know, and it will be a long path filled with hardships, but as your friend I cannot allow your son to die for our actions."

The assassin sat down and gave Leonardo a grave look from behind his hood. He must have sensed the complete shock rolling off the artist, for he comforted him despite the news.

"There's no need to decide yet, Leonardo. This is your choice, and Fee's too young yet to start his training. But know the risk; these men I fight against will stop at nothing to get what they want. They murdered my family in cold blood. How long until they target my friends?"


	13. In the Chaos comes the Calm

As according to the plan, Leonardo roamed the isolated back streets of Firenze soon after Ezio had left. There he would meet with Fillipa and take Fiorentino home, permitting that all had gone well and the pair had reached safety, which was a dark path his thoughts refused to wander.

The assassin had given him much to think about. It was true that Florence was a dangerous place to be; the heart of social upheaval, it looked like. But did that then mean that Fiorentino was doomed to live a life in the shadows, condemned to it by a chance encounter, an act of fate? Did that mean Leonardo was to blame for his part in the child's destiny, or could he decide against it and still keep him safe?

As he passed by broken wares and ransacked shops, some still with signs hanging lopsided from their posts, the artist wondered if there was such a thing as the goodness of man. The calm night was tainted by the riots' aftermath, in which pieces of the market stalls were scattered about like chicken feed, and he had no idea if his 'son' had made it through the madness alive.

Platinum-plated stars lit his path, but in doing so they left nothing to the imagination. The moonlight glinted from shattered shop windows, illuminating shards that had fallen to the ground, and Leonardo was taken by the sudden urge to paint. The shadows that still clung to the alleys' edges; the gorgeous if intimidating array of glass made silver; the turned-up flower plots with soiled footprints leading nowhere; it was a masterpiece waiting to be captured, yet not as a tribute to mankind's success.

No – in Leonardo's eyes, it would be a cry for change.

"Maestro!"

The artist turned to the sound of the shrill voice, and when he saw Magdalena approaching his shoulders eased. In the darkness she was a radiant beam; her blonde hair caught the ever silver light and her eyes were emeralds in the gloom.

She slipped her hand in the crook of his arm, giving him her brilliant smile, before they started to walk through the torn apart street.

"I feared you would be hurt," she admitted, her voice shy for both her foolishness and for the good fortune of chancing across him; "The streets were mad!"

"No, my workshop was left alone during the chaos. It seems no one wants to steal half-finished paintings."

"Fools. They should know your half-finished paintings are worth more than ten complete."

He laughed, though still unsure of what might lurk on those deserted roads. It could be that the bulk of the attack was over but, as ever, some stragglers still remained, ready to pounce on the vulnerable few that dared venture to their loved ones.

Magdalena told him of the attacks on her home. Her father, a proud man, had fought against the assailants and managed to hold his ground, but at the cost of two fingers and the better part of his right earlobe. She shuddered to think what they would have done had her brothers not arrived to help.

"It was awful, Maestro. Dreadful. I've never seen such violence."

He nodded sympathetically; "Please, Magdalena, call me Leonardo. And it seems today was a day for the lunatics. I expect there will be retribution tomorrow. If not, I pray you and your family will keep yourself safe."

Magdalena looked up at the flurry of stars above, blinking at them as they wandered through the darkness. Her head fell on Leonardo's shoulder and the artist said nothing, with the assumption that she needed comfort during these mad times.

"If we have to walk at night from now on…"

"No," he assured her; "The day will be given back to us. But it's a beautiful hour."

"It is. Why are you out, Leonardo?"

"My nurse took Fiorentino somewhere safe, and it's time I collected him. I only hope…" his eyes went distant. A pang of fear almost crippled his heart as he imagined what the boy must have seen, too young to understand the madness of men, and wanting only to go back to his familiar, calm workshop.

"He will be safe, Leonardo. You must trust in God to protect our loved ones, and He will deliver."

"I wish I had your faith, mia Signora. All I want now is to see him. I fear he's been witness to more than I ever wanted him to."

"Your compassion for him is refreshing. Fear not; even if he saw a man decapitate another, I know your coolness will set him right."

It was then that the artist caught movement ahead. Shaded and careful, it looked to be a figure, but it was too far off to make out amongst the dense shadows around it, like the eyes of a hooded face.

Leonardo whispered for Magdalena to hang back, muttering 'tranquillo' to her as he stepped forward and faced whatever lurked in front.

"We mean no trouble," he called, hands in the air to punctuate his point, "Merely looking for someone, I assure you. We'll move on."

The figure was still for a moment. In his imaginative mind, Leonardo thought it was contemplating murder. But then a slender leg stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight, soon to be followed by a feminine figure clutching a small, whimpering boy to her chest.

"Fiorentino!"

Leonardo moved forward, not quite at a run but close, and took the child from her arms. In an instant Fee was silent, his brown eyes glinting in the light as he looked up at his saviour.

"I feared the worst," he admitted, speaking just a little too fast, grinning down at the familiar weight; "I thought you had gotten lost in the chaos, or had come across trouble, or had been-"

Fillipa's soft chuckle cut him off; "No, we're quite fine. The only trouble was a drunkard roaming around the street, but he moved off once he saw my husband. Fiorentino has been crying since we left."

"It's alright, Fee – all is well again. No more riots, see? Tomorrow, everything will be put right, and we'll be able to paint undisturbed."

The baby stared at him as he talked, eyes still watery from many hours of crying. Behind them Magdalena gave Fillipa a quick smile in the way of a greeting, but both women were enthralled by the quiet relief on Leonardo's face.

"M-M-M…" Fee's mouth struggled with the sound; "M-M-Ma…"

_Please don't call me Madre._

"M-M-Maes-Maestro…"

Fiorentino's head fell forward to nuzzle into the artist's shoulder, and the shocked looks on all their faces were tinged by the silver glow of the moon.


	14. Nature that Shapes the World

The next year went by in an unsettling way. Leonardo was aware of it more than Fee; the way men glared at each other in the streets, how the guards warned off people in need for fear they would be reprimanded. Florence, though firm on the surface, was rotting from the inside out.

The artist even saw his local clientele diminishing and was forced to take commissions from further away, such as Venice and Rome, or the odd passing nobleman who stumbled on his work. It seemed the good people of Firenze simply didn't have enough time or energy to spend on fine art.

Despite this, Leonardo found joy. Fiorentino was growing stronger every day, reaching the tender age of two on unsteady feet and becoming more curious about his surroundings. He would ask questions in a little voice, though he rarely ever understood the answers. His adoptive father would watch, proud, as the boy admired the works of art around him, the gentle portraits and harsh, bold colours of a broken city – their broken city.

"Maestro?"

Leonardo looked down to see familiar brown eyes staring up at him, two plump hands clutching a homemade leather-bound book. His smile came out of its own accord. Whenever he looked at his growing son, it felt as though he couldn't hold back his grins.

"What is it, Fee?" he asked as he turned from his delicate work. The commission was for a Venetian Lady from a wealthy standing, who wanted to have a truly unique piece for display in her home. So far, Leonardo had toyed with painting his birthplace from memory, or even the Florentine back streets that were uncommon for visitors to see. Nothing seemed to fit what she was asking for.

Fiorentino flipped the book open, his neatly cropped black hair catching the sunlight that poured in from the window. It was a picture book the artist had made himself for his son's second birthday, complete with drawn animals and their names underneath, and since giving it to him Fee had seldom put it down.

He showed him a picture – a beautiful dove with ruffled feathers, its graceful neck turned until it felt like its black eyes were staring straight at the reader. In its beak it held a small branch of holly, the berries a sharp red, which added to the elegance Leonardo felt this creature deserved.

At the bottom of its clawed feet, in curly writing (Fillipa's best,) there read the word '_uccello._'

"Un uccello, Fee," the artist pointed to the word, dragging his finger along the black ink; "_Uccello._"

The boy turned the page towards him and copied his father's motion; "Oo-chell-o."

"That's right, Fee. Quite simple, no?"

A grin stretched across the child's face before he stood on tiptoes to peek at what Leonardo was doing. He had no unique love for art that burned within an artist's veins, no special interest in it other than it was his father's profession, but no matter his childish opinion he took the time to inspect whatever was being made. He did, after all, see the various customers come to the door, which would insight curiosity in any young mind.

"Come here," the artist lifted him until he was on his lap, where he realised how much larger Fiorentino had become. Black hair had replaced the downy fluff of infancy, he had lost a small amount of baby fat and, though Leonardo preferred to keep them indoors due to unrest, he had a thirst to see what lay beyond them, what the workshop's walls kept out on the sun-baked Firenze streets.

The skeletal outline of what looked to be the countryside lay in front of them. Though small and rudimentary, Fee could make out a cluster of sheep that grazed on a hillside, the peasant girls' silhouettes that splashed in a meandering river running through the valley.

His fingers ghosted along the sketch. Somewhere in the corner there stood a tiny house, supposedly made of brick and mortar, with a woman's undefined shape – a woman who clutched a smaller undefined shape's hand, and stared out at the peasant girls at play.

Leonardo sensed his melancholy mood, and diverted Fee's attention to something else; "What's say we take to the markets? I'm sure there are some more strange trinkets to find!"

The boy and artist got some things together for the trip; his basket had become somewhat of a handy tool in recent months, since Fee insisted on taking his book and special blue blanket with them. Leonardo took it from him as they entered the busy streets, where lords and ladies brushed shoulders with labourers and the like.

"Hold my hand, Fee," he instructed, feeling a tiny hand slip into his own, "Remember what I said last time – even if you see something interesting, you never walk away from me, yes? We've no idea who might be out today."

From Fiorentino's view, all the people were towering giants, their outfits both grand and terrifying. The child clung to his father's hand as though it were a lifeline in a contained sort of chaos, and not once did the thought to abscond cross his mind. Curious though he was, he was easily frightened by all the noise, the conversations that flew back and forth to overwhelm him, and even the kind ladies who gave him adoring waves.

The marketplace was rife with shouts and screams, but that was to be expected. Merchants called out what they had on offer – fine silks, satchels, a purse or two of something strange, even the odd poison stolen from a dottore's stall – but Fee did as he was told. Not swayed by the glinting necklaces or shining toys, he clutched Leonardo's hand until the artist stopped dead, and turned his head to see what had caused the standstill.

In a shaded area of the marketplace, where some of the ladies chose to sit by a large tree and fan themselves, there stood a new stall filled with exotic wares; a special sword from the plains of England; a shiny golden jewellery box with five different sized keyholes, apparently from France; an interesting teapot with white-faced ladies on the china, black hair in a bun hairstyle as they poured what looked to be green tea into little flecks of blue, from China; but it was none of these that had caught Leonardo's gaze.

Beside the heavy bearded seller, an arched, golden cage was placed. Inside was an almost exact replica of the bird in Fee's book; a dove, locked away from flying with its white feathered brothers.

"Che tristezza," the artist sighed; "We keep something so beautiful incarcerated for our own benefit."

Fiorentino felt the sadness rolling off his father in waves. With trepidation he moved towards the stall, tugging at Leonardo's hand to follow, and despite giving the boy an odd look he acquiesced.

They approached the stall slowly. The merchant laughed and gestured to his wares, apparently recognising Leonardo's face, and asked what they would like to buy from him.

"Uccello," Fiorentino pulled the book from his basket and showed the bird; "Uccello."

"Ah, you'd like Abri?"

"Yes," the boy had taken the reins from his father, who stood there without saying a word. His voice was small and childish, but seemed to amuse the merchant – he beamed at them through the white scruff around his face.

"Well, he's not for sale, but I think I can be persuaded to part ways."

Leonardo sighed, but saw the determined look that coloured Fee's features, and found himself handing over the money anyway. An extortionate amount for one bird, no matter how beautiful it may have been. The man was a grinning con-artist.

"Fee, what are you doing?"

The artist, now laboured with a cage and the basket, tried his best to keep up with the boy, who for some reason had started taking them through a specific route. He recognised the green park's direction before Fiorentino even walked it; it was the only real place he had gone to, the only place he knew apart from the market and the cosy, cool workshop.

"Uccello!"

That was all he would reply.

When they finally reached the park – a small patch of grassland that had survived the construction, dotted with bright-haired children and their suitably bright mothers – Fee went straight to the centre, where there was situated a large tree blooming with blossoms.

Leonardo finally understood as he placed the cage beside his son. Smiling, Fiorentino knelt beside him and the artist, watched by the mothers, began to untie the cage's door.

"They are designed to fly," he said to Fee, who listened as he watched what Leonardo was doing; "Sometimes in flocks, sometimes alone. It seems a pity to stop something from doing what it's supposed to, no? Why don't we give it back its freedom?"

And with a flick of the wrist, that's what Leonardo did.

The moment the cage door sprung open, the dove hopped out and shook off the dredges of imprisonment. Stretching two glorious white wings, it raised its neck up to the sky, shook once more, and took off.

Fiorentino ran to the edge of the high wall bordering the park so he could watch the bird sweep past the rooftops, its song loud and harmonious. His intrigued face caught sight of the sun eclipsing from its wings, and with a glance back at Leonardo his smile became even wider.

The artist only watched how his son reacted to the sight. His small frame, the way his neck craned outside as he climbed on a bench and followed the bird's flight – it was inspiration, and he suddenly knew that Fee's black silhouette against the harsh sunlight, rigid with astonishment and somehow still in motion, would be what he sent to that wealthy Venetian, perhaps with the dove flying through the clear blue skies.

It was a glimpse into the gentle nature that would shape Fee's character.


	15. Commission a Reason to Stay

"No, Leonardo – you simply can't go through with it."

The artist sighed as he propped a commission against the wall, noting where he still needed to add a hint of colour before he sent it off, but it was almost impossible to concentrate in Magdalena's presence. The girl was kind and had been a good friend to him for two years; that had no effect on the shrillness of her voice, though.

"It's a grand opportunity, Maestro," added Laura, who, now married and pregnant, was enjoying the dark coolness that Leonardo's workshop had to offer. She lounged on the sofa and glanced at the empty play pen beside her, perhaps bemused that Fiorentino was still napping so late in the morning.

"That it is, and it seems the perfect time with my commissions here diminishing," he sighed as his eyes roamed over the painting, hand clasped around his chin to ghost his fingers across his lips; "but Magdalena's argument holds some weight. Fee's home has always been here, in Florence, and despite the unrest…"

He trailed off. It had been a long time since he thought of Fiorentino's mother. He had given up the search soon after his last lead went dry, and since that was so long ago it seemed foolish to start the hunt again. Besides, the boy was now his son; it was Leonardo who had raised him, changed him, cleaned up the baby sick and gone through the milestones. Logic dictated that she cared little for the boy he loved so much. So why did he think about her now, the mother Fee never knew, the mother who had abandoned him on a stranger's doorstep?

"If this nobleman has offered transport and a new workshop, you should take it. Who knows what it might do for your career?"

"Laura, no! Leonardo belongs here!"

"Maestro belongs wherever his path takes him. If Venice is his promised land, let him go to it."

"Leonardo, you're not seriously considering this?"

When the artist turned, he found Magdalena was leaning towards him, her dainty hands bunched up in her lap until they all but disappeared in the blue dress she was wearing. Those green eyes were pleading, begging him to console her, and yet he had could not.

"There's much I have to consider before I can rule anything out. Florence may be our home, but there's a lot that can be done in other places – inspiration, history, knowledge. I'd be a fool if I declined on sentiment alone."

Magdalena regarded him with a note of terror in her gaze, as though the thought of him leaving was too painful to bear. Perhaps it was? He had long ago realised the depth of her feelings for him but, like so many others before her, he had no interest, no wish to be tied down to one place due to a wedding band. She would find requited love in another man, if only she could rid herself of her misguided crush.

"Per favore, Leonardo," her voice was small, strained by emotion and unshed tears; "You can't just leave Florence behind. The unrest will be over soon enough – in a few years, all will go back to the way it should be."

Laura managed to raise herself up from where she was lying beside her friend. Her belly caused it to be a struggle, but she managed to straighten her back and compose herself.

"The conflict may yet go on, Maggie, and if it does I doubt anyone will want to raise their children here. Why, you know even my husband's considered leaving."

"But-"

A creak on the staircase had them falling silent, and moments later a sleepy-faced boy appeared in the doorway to the side of the room, hands clasped over a coarse, low-quality blue blanket. Fiorentino rubbed at his eyes, still half-lidded, taking into account first Magdalena, then Laura, and finally Leonardo.

"Was the nap needed?" the artist asked. It had been a struggle to get him to sleep that day, since the boy was adamant that naps were for babies and not grown men like himself. It made Leonardo smile to think about.

Nodding his head, Fee stumbled across to him and was immediately enveloped in a hug, raised up until he sat on the man's hip. Though he was heavier than he had been when they first met, for the time being, Leonardo had no trouble holding him, until he decided he was bored and wriggled out of his grasp.

The child laid his head down on Leonardo's shoulder. Magdalena watched as the artist rocked him slightly, comforted that at least he seemed to be in his right mind. If he was, he would realise that Venice was a silly endeavour; that his place was with her in sunny Firenze.

"He's such a gentle boy, isn't he?" Laura cooed. Her pregnancy had her acting strangely; one moment, she couldn't stand the sight of children, and the next they were all she could think about.

"Yes," Leonardo smiled at the dark head; "Il mio garzone dolce."

"Venice would be a wonderful place to raise him – far away from the fighting here, at least. Venetians are so polite, I've heard."

"To your face. Who knows what they do behind closed doors?" Magdalena said, her voice filled with venom to people she knew nothing about.

Leonardo thought back to Fee's gentle nature; something not wholly usual in boys, especially those his age and around such displays of violence. He recalled the bird that they had released together a year before, one of many, and the act of courage in the following months.

It had been a hot day, where the sun's rays blinded the Florentines and had young children been stripped of their shirts, left to play in the shade of tall trees or strategically placed market stalls.

The artist had taken Fee out for a rare day in the park. It had been for selfish reasons as well as the child's enjoyment; a reason to procrastinate on his then current project.

They had been in the park where Leonardo had taken to sketching and Fee played with children his own age, some of which had young, recently widowed mothers who liked to ply the artist with questions. He remembered being thankful for the peace, disturbed only by a child's occasional squeal or the bark of reprimanding.

It was when those squeals went on too long that Leonardo looked up. He was shocked to see one of the girls had been pinned by a dirty-kneed boy, her adorable blonde ringlets splayed out on the ground, and it seemed all the parents had become living statues that could only watch, horrified, but immobilised.

Leonardo himself had no idea what to do. A glint of sunlight made him aware the boy was holding a shard of glass to her throat – inspired by the recent string of assaults? – and then he realised Fee was standing near them in a standstill. Before he could call his name, though, the boy surged forward.

The young assailant was hit side-on by what felt like a cannonball. The pair went down together, but Fiorentino had the advantage of knowing what to expect, and so he was up before his opponent had even gathered what had happened. He pulled the girl to her feet with a pudgy hand and turned back around to shield her with his own body; a courageous act that the parents had yet to do, even though they were much older and more experienced than the two year old before them.

"No." Fee said, slow and deliberate, to the dirty-kneed, angry faced child in front of him, with deceptively angelic looks of blonde hair and blue eyes, a nose of perfect proportion to his face.

The assailant had run off after that, and moments later the parents had come to their senses, but by that point it was too late. He was gone.

It was then that the artist knew the world had gone mad.

Fee had comforted the girl with his child-like innocence; when Leonardo approached him, he heard a faint, "There, there," and realised that the boy was stroking her shoulder, his face positioned into something similar to what he had seen his saviour do when comforting him.

That was months ago, and he still remembered the intense fear that gripped his heart when he saw his son charging towards the attacker. He looked so much like an assassin, had so much resemblance to one in those few moments that Ezio's proposition had roared to the front of Leonardo's mind, like a tiger pouncing on its prey. Fee would be four soon enough – the perfect age to start training. The age recommended by his hooded friend.

How could Ezio have wanted to corrupt that gentle nature with assassination? Fee was docile and obedient, with the temperament of angels, but still he had the sharpness of mind and courage to do what was right, when it was right.

Which was why Leonardo couldn't risk having him in Florence. The place was going to the dogs. Its beautiful architecture and familiar faces could no longer sway him into believing in its redemption, into trusting that the guards would set things right. If Fee was of a disposition to help those in dire need, the boy would find himself in more danger than his father liked to think about.

"No," he muttered, so low that Magdalena and Laura had to listen more closely; "It's far too dangerous here. Venice would be a nice change, and a wonderful opportunity for us both."

Leonardo had made up his mind – Florence would only see that his son would need to become an assassin, no matter what his nature might have been.

After packing up his workshop, he and Fiorentino would move to Venice.


	16. Loading Tomorrow

Fiorentino watch as his father began to load the cart with supplies. Its wooden frame creaked under the weight of art, contraptions and living essentials, as well as some food for the trip, all the while Magdalena, Laura and Fillipa sat in the shade with him, watching as Laura's husband, Fillipa's husband and Leonardo went about their work.

The tree's branches were stretched wide over the path; so far was its reach that it even had half the wagon in shade. Each man spared glances at their family every now and again, who so far had been quiet, unobtrusive, like a heavy cloud was hanging over them despite the brilliantly blue sky.

"I think that's everything," Fillipa's husband said, a man of Turkish descent with heavy, weathered features, "Do you need any more assistance, Maestro?"

Laura's husband turned sideways to give her a quick glance and then got back to the conversation, silent like the woman herself. He had never met Leonardo and yet his wife had insisted they show their support, even if they were but acquaintances that had met through chance.

Fee's attention waned as the men spoke. Barely aware of what was going on, he thought how strange it was to be travelling so far, how sad Magdalena and Fillipa looked beside him; he had half a mind to ask what was happening, but even when his father had explained it to him he was left confused. From what he could gather, they were going on a trip. A place called Venice waited for them beyond the Apennine Mountains, filled with grand opportunities and faces, architecture that, Leonardo assured him, would put Florence to shame.

"Sì, grazie," the artist sighed, catching his son's attention once more; "I suppose all that's left to do now is set out. Fee, come here."

It broke Leonardo's heart to see him bouncing up from his place, so happy and full of life, unaware that they would not be coming back to Florence for the foreseeable future. Behind him, Magdalena ducked her head into her hands, no doubt in tears. She had had three weeks to accept Leonardo's departure, and still it hurt to watch him go.

Fiorentino came to stand in front of his father, that trusting look on his face that the artist had come to expect. Slightly tanned, still with bigger than average eyes and small, toothpick like teeth, his son was like any other child from Firenze – except that he had unknown roots and a dark future if they remained.

Leonardo lowered himself to one knee and rested his hand on the boy's shoulder. His face was serious, but no less affectionate.

"Fee, you remember why we're leaving, don't you?"

"Yes," Fee replied. His little voice made Laura's husband pay closer attention, as though determining what to expect when his own child was born.

"There's a lot we have to do in Venice, and I fear it will take some time. Do you understand that, Fee?"

"Yes."

There was no sadness in Fiorentino's eyes. Looking over his head, Leonardo caught Fillipa's gaze and they exchanged a quick grimace, before the artist sighed and turned his face away from the sun. It seemed as though he was looking down the path that wound up through the mountains.

"Fee," he began again; "There may not…well, we may not come back for a long time. Not until you're much older."

There was a moment of quiet. Above them, a soaring bird was singing its sweet song, great wings stretched to cast a fleeting shadow over their faces before it was gone again. Fee's eyes widened as he processed the information.

Then Leonardo saw the first tear glide down his cheek.

"Come now, Fee, it will be alright," he said, enveloping the boy in his arms; "You can send letters, and perhaps our business in Venice will be done sooner than we think. There's no need for tears."

But to Fiorentino, there were only tears. Too young yet to understand the glares and violence, Fee saw his home in a brilliantly naïve light; a light that was rose-tinted and concealed all wrong. What happened behind the scenes was, to him, something that existed only in horror stories. Their workshop was in Florence, and in Florence he had come to accept a place that could not be bettered, for there was no better.

"Home." He managed to whimper. The hot sun bore down on his exposed neck – his puffy white shirt kept him cool, as did his thin black trousers, but he could suddenly feel the heat, draining his energy that a moment ago had him bouncing down the path.

But Leonardo was adamant. The move would be good for them, safer, without threat from civil disputes or an assassin-based destiny. Fiorentino was too young to realise just how far men would go, just how ruthless they could be to get what they wanted. Were Ezio and his enemies not a testament to that?

The artist lifted him onto the wagon's seat, behind the horses with flowing black manes and large sinewy muscles. Beneath the shining pelts he could see the power lined within their bones; he had heard tales of these beasts crushing humans into dust, but had never put too much belief into them. Now, he wondered why.

Through his tears, Fiorentino was given kisses by the women he had come to love. Fillipa told him they would write as soon as they reached Venice, and her husband nodded as though to confirm it. Laura – he had always thought her cold, but there was a glimmer of emotion in her eyes when she pecked his forehead – asked him to stay safe.

Magdalena made a dramatic scene of her farewell. As though waving off a lover into war, she kissed Fee's head and then clasped Leonardo's hands in her own, staring deeply into his blue eyes as tears built in her own.

"You will be safe, won't you?" she asked, ignoring her friend's discomfort; "And write to me as soon as you reach Venice, yes? Ti mosto. Please promise me you will."

"Sì, sì, I will," he promised, and then to everyone; "We will write to all of you once we've settled in. Thank you so much for your help today."

The husbands nodded.

A few minutes later, the wagon pulled away from the five people on the path, carrying Leonardo and his son to a new beginning. The artist did not glance back at the four waving figures, but Fee turned round in time to see Magdalena taking a few rushing steps after the cart – not quite a run, but closer – and soon she let go of her skirt, waving so frantically it was more like a display to be noticed.

"Never fear, Fee," the artist said, looping one arm around his son's shoulders to give him a comforting squeeze; "We never know what the future has in store for us."


	17. In Every Mountainside, Every Quiver

As the pair made their way through the winding paths of the Apennine Mountains, Leonardo became aware of his son's quiet mood.

Fiorentino hadn't said a word, had barely made a sound since they left Florence behind them. Even as the sky became overcast and the air grew cold, the boy never took his eyes off the constant, steady flow of mountainsides, following the movements of goats they would occasionally pass or the odd traveller going in the opposite direction. His face was grim, as though he had been told bad news and was trying to come to terms with it.

_He'll come to accept it in time,_ the artist told himself, cracking the reins every now and again when the horses began to digress or lag; _Once he sees Venice, I'm sure he will forget all about Florence. In a few years, I doubt he will even remember what our workshop looked like._

"Are you hungry, Fee?"

The child remained still for a moment, and then shook his head. Leonardo was concerned; they had chosen not to eat that morning for it was too hot and there was much to do, but even he had nibbled on bread throughout the journey. Fee, though, hadn't had so much as a block of cheese.

The artist glanced around at the monotonous landscape, so mute of colour that it was almost a crime, and began to wonder how he would entice his son to eat. Like Leonardo, the child rarely ate when upset – a habit he had no doubt picked up from his father – and because they were night owls, staying up late to catch glimpses of the moon or the beautiful, purple-hued galaxies above them, most of their meals were later in the day to fit their routine. But it the day was rumbling along, now almost in the afternoon, and the growing boy beside him needed to eat.

"I have a treat in the basket for you," he mentioned, which caused Fiorentino to look up as if suddenly intrigued; "Una torta di ciliegie, if I recall."

He saw a spark of hunger in the boy's eyes, but Fee resisted leaning over to check in his mother's basket, placed between them for convenient food storage. Leonardo inwardly sighed; his son was angry with him, and were he in Fee's position he might have been as well.

They jostled along the pathway in silence again, and once more Fiorentino was absorbed in his surroundings. Through osmosis he had learnt to look at things the way Leonardo did; the bland colours were to him a new experience, something he had never seen in their soft yet vibrant workshop – former workshop, now – which made him wonder why no artist had tried to paint it themselves. In his mind, an entire world could be created with a brush and skilful hands, so why did they not try to brighten something so dull?

The birds had fallen silent some time ago, and he found himself wondering where they had gone. It was then that Fee realised there were clouds in the sky. Hours ago he had been hiding from the sun, but the air was colder, making him shiver in his loose fitting clothes.

Leonardo caught the move out of the periphery of his vision. Without hesitation he looped his arm around the boy's waist, pulling him close enough for Fee to nuzzle into his father's warm side.

The artist took the moment to comfort him; "Ah, Fee – Venice will be good for us. You'll see once we settle into the workshop. And it will be your first time travelling by boat. That's an experience in itself, no?"

The boy was quiet. Between them still sat the basket, which Fee angled his body over in an awkward pose, until Leonardo's free hand slid from his son's shoulder and pulled it free. Fiorentino moved closer as the artist put it on his lap.

"Romagna is still some time away," he explained, picking up the blue blanket Fee insisted was to come with them, "Eat, Fee, and try to rest. It's been a long morning."

With only a brief pause, Fiorentino did as he was told.

Leonardo stole glances at his son's face when he was deep in sleep. The way his nose twitched at something in his dream, how his bottom lip would jut in and out as though making a decision; they were faces he had come to expect and love, something so uniquely Fee that they could never be equated to anyone else. As the boy's head lolled on his father's lower arm, a certain peace washed over him.

_Things will be better once we've left Romagna._

Suddenly, there was a jolt. The horses whinnied as the wagon lurched forward, then fell down, shaking Fiorentino from his nap while Leonardo jerked to keep their balance.

"Huh?" he asked, rubbing his tired eyes; "What?"

"Wait here, Fee. Let me check the wheels."

The child made no effort to follow as his father jumped down to the ground.

_Tired, _he thought with a smile.

He walked to the side of the cart where the broken wheel lay, still in perfect condition but somehow having detached itself from the frame. In the back of the wagon was his newest contraption – a machine he hoped would give man the ability to fly, though it was still in its fundamental stages and had yet to be altered. Leonardo couldn't resist checking to make sure it was alright before he moved back to the wheel.

"Merda," he cursed softly, for he tried to refrain from such words in Fee's presence, "So much for Firenze's craftsmanship."

The damage was minimal, if it could be called damage at all. The problem lay in the fact that the wagon was too heavy for Leonardo to lift, and without lifting it there was no way to reattach the wheel.

Two curious eyes poked up over the edge of the seat, looking down at the red beret the artist wore – the only thing visible to them.

"It seems we may be stuck here a while, Fee," Leonardo called out; "The wheel's come away from the frame."

Fiorentino's brow furrowed; "Put it back?" he asked, and he stumbled even over those words, not yet used to using long and sophisticated sentences.

"I can't; the wagon's far too heavy for that."

Defeated, the artist clasped his hands over his bent knee, the other digging into the ground as he peered at the delaying problem. What had caused it to just fall off? Had something been loose, or was it simply not designed for longer trips, made only to withstand the occasional trudge between markets?

A gleeful screech tore him from his thoughts. If he wasn't so sure it was glee in Fee's voice, the artist may have been more worried, but when he heard 'Ezio! Ezio!' being shrieked like an acolyte's mantra, he felt relief wash over him.

_Ezio – your timing is impeccable._

Leonardo stood up in time to see his hooded friend appearing from the seat, where a small boy was lifted and placed on one broad shoulder. Fiorentino had seen the man a handful of times in his short life, but each one was memorable, and he adored the short visits they received every few months.

"Hello, il mio amico," Ezio greeted when he saw the artist; "What are you doing here?"

"I received a generous offer from a nobleman to continue my work in Venice." Leonardo gave him a quick, brotherly embrace, noting the fresh wound that stretched from his neck to the edge of his jawline. "I thought, what with the ongoing hostilities…"

He gestured vaguely towards Fee, and the message was received.

"Ah. Then, what seems to be the delay?"

"This," he turned to the wheel, "We can't go anywhere in this condition. Ezio, do you think you're strong enough to lift the cart? I can reattach the wheel, if you are."

"Anything to help a friend in need."

Fiorentino was put on the ground and left to watch, awed by how Ezio lifted the entire wagon long enough to fix the problem. Leonardo hummed in gratitude.

"Thank you, Ezio – the wheel fits perfectly. A wonder it fell off in the first place…"

"Leonardo," the artist looked up and saw his friend's eyes gazing into the wagon; "What is that?"

He looked, realising a second later that he was talking of the flying machine; the pet project Leonardo went about when he was putting off his paintings. Shadowed like some clandestine weapon, all that could be made out of it was a dark bulk, as well as the little hint of coloured wings now folded to fit into the space.

"That, mio amico, is one of my projects – a machine I hope will give man the ability to fly."

Fiorentino, still in awe, wandered up to the hooded assassin, and was picked up almost absent-mindedly as they listened to the artist talk.

"Flying?" Ezio chuckled; "The skies are for the birds, Leonardo, not for man."

"For now, perhaps. One day, I hope we can join them in their flight."

The trio moved back to the seat, where Ezio abandoned the horse he was apparently riding when he chanced across them. So lost was Leonardo in fixing the wheel that he hadn't even realised when the steed was approaching them, for Ezio had come in the direction they had, and not the opposite way.

"Mi dispacie, Ezio – I had no idea."

"No need for apologies, Leonardo. I had welcome enough from Fee."

The assassin looped his arm over Fee's shoulders and gave him a good natured ruffling, which made the child laugh in delight. Ezio was good with children; had his path not been meant for something else, he mused that he and Christina would have had many sons and daughters.

"He's much bigger now," Ezio's words were not without their meaning, and Leonardo recognised the tone of voice, "How old are you, Fee?"

The boy thought for a moment and then, as though the answer had just come to him; "Three."

"Three? How old. Soon enough, you'll be old enough to be a father."

Fiorentino wrinkled his nose. From what he had seen, most children had both a mother and father, aside from himself, and he had no wish to take a wife. He assumed that a baby would come to him much the same way as he had come to Leonardo; in the middle of a storm, and what the artist called 'a disguised miracle.'

Ezio glanced over at his friend when he spoke. He noticed how Leonardo purposely avoided his gaze.

"Well, perhaps-"

A sudden arrow hitting the side of the cart cut Ezio off. He reacted in a moment; shielding Fee from the projectiles that were appearing from the mountainsides, the assassin shouted at his friend over the din.

"What's happening?!" Leonardo asked.

"An attack!" he pointed to the wagon; "Get inside – I'll steer us to Romagna."

"Ezio-"

"Take the boy and get inside!"

Fiorentino was thrown in against the flying machine, followed by his father, who enveloped him in a great hug and whispered comforts into his ear.

"Don't worry, Fee, Ezio will keep us safe. Romagna is not too far away. I'm here."

But even as he spoke, the arrows' broke through the side of the wagon, and Fee could make out the pointed, deadly heads of the attacker's weapons.


	18. Grim Losses

Being jolted from side to side, Leonardo wrapped his arms tightly around his son's waist, praying that they would make it out alive.

Around them, the barrage of arrows still attacked. They kept away from the open slots as best they could; it was difficult, for there was only a small area that could properly shield them, but Leonardo was determined that neither of them would die that day.

Weak rays of weaker sunlight filtered around arrow heads that managed to penetrate the wood, and Fiorentino reached forward as though to touch them.

"No!" the artist pulled his hand back to their huddled bodies; "Stay as small as you can, Fee!"

The wagon jolted once more to throw the pair apart. Fiorentino smacked into the flying machine at such a speed that it could have knocked him out, but the adrenaline pumping through him meant he barely felt it.

"Fee!"

Before Leonardo could make it to his son, a shadow passed over the wagon's interior, and he found himself freezing when he realised where it had come from.

_Merda__ – they're climbing on the cart!_

He pulled himself back up to the small shielded space from where he had fallen at the side and tried to snatch Fee in front, but the boy was too far. He was in the direct line of fire for those madmen.

What happened next had Leonardo reeling in his seat.

Fiorentino, armed with a small, pointed piece of wood that had been left beside the flying machine, jumped over to the slots and began to jab at whatever he could find there – limbs, chests, even the odd helmeted face. The cart swerved violently from left to right, shaking off the surprised attackers that Fee continued to prod.

Leonardo was stunned. Then he realised what he was doing; cowering in the corner while his three year old son fought for their lives. With a sudden wave of courage crashing over him, the artist crouched and rushed to his boy, who was still absorbed in distracting or even loosening their assailants.

"Get back, Fee," he ordered, taking the weapon from him; "Stay in the shade."

But it seemed Fee was determined to help his father, for the child just picked up another piece of wood and continued his assault. A look of pure concentration descended on his face; not without its horror, Leonardo realised, for behind that vacant stare was a glimmer of sadness, and he was again reminded of the gentle nature that was his Fee.

"Leonardo!"

The artist turned to his name, realising that the arrow attacks had slowed somewhat when the guards began to jump on them.

"Take the reins; I'll try to distract them!"

With one quick glance at Fiorentino, he did as instructed. It would have been harder to leave him if the boy were not so caught up in defending their cart.

The moment Leonardo pulled himself up from the interior to sit on the seat, Ezio jumped over the edge, leaving the reins in the hands of his very capable friend. When the painter glanced over to see where he had gone to, the assassin was on his own steed – the one he thought had been left behind – and was steering most of the attack away on a smaller, lesser used path.

As though of one mind, the guards that still clung to the wagon let go, either to tumble safely in the dirt or to be hit by the wheels. He heard a little whimper sound inside, but so fixated was Leonardo on getting them to safety that he did not turn to comfort Fee.

Almost as quickly as it had started, the attack weakened, and then stopped altogether. There was a moment where even the sun was glimpsed behind the clouds as Leonard realised they were safe, but soon it was swallowed again and the mountainside was as dull as before.

A tiny body came up to sit beside him. The artist had to bite back the urge to send Fiorentino inside again, for he had no idea if the calm was just to lull them into a false sense of security.

"Gone now?" came a quiet, tired voice. Leonardo felt his heart ache as his hands tightened on the reins.

"I think so, Fee," he answered, not without glancing around at the monotonous scenery. "Yes, I think we're safe now."

There was a moment of silence. Then;

"My basket."

Strained, as though choking back sobs, Fiorentino pointed down at the place where his basket and blanket had been – a place now empty. Leonardo's face softened when he saw the unshed tears glimmering in his son's eyes.

"Fee…" was all he could say.

The boy slumped back in the seat, his eyes staring vacantly at the landscape. The artist watched as Fiorentino's bottom lip jutted out for a second, as though contemplating the day's events or coming to terms with his loss, before the child spoke again.

"Guardie stupidi."

The rest of the journey, though tense and cautious, was relatively peaceful. They came across smiling farmers on their way to Florence who would wave at them, or even a few well-to-do ladies on horses that gave Fiorentino their dazzling smiles.

But Fee was in no mood to smile back at them. His temperament meant he did not scream, shout, or wail, yet there was still a childish sulk about him; a sort of mourning for something that could be replaced.

_Can it be replaced, though?_ Leonardo caught himself wondering as they walked on the final bend, Romagna in sight; _That was the basket his mother left him in. The blanket, too. Oh Fee; I'm so sorry._

"Do you want to have a rest?" the artist found himself asking. Like when they had first set out for Venice, Fiorentino was silent, shaking his head in reply as though the ability to speak had left him.

Romagna was a deprived place – a wetland, surrounded by ravaged buildings and dirty water, where weeds grew in abundance and farmers toiled at poor, useless soil. The people there wore faces of humble austerity, and children like Fee were left to either work or play with homemade toys.

The wagon made its way through these people as though the slightest sudden move would cause them to attack. Fiorentino forgot his sulking so he could look down at them, and with curious eyes he gazed at who was to him the conduit of all wisdom.

"These people are not as affluent as we are, Fee," Leonardo explained; "They make their money through farming, but the soil is bad, and their methods are rooted in poor practice. Disease takes away the men, too, so the women are left without a main source of income, and the children have to work."

"Help them?"

"I wish we could, but my money will only go so far. And I'm responsible for more than one mouth, no?" the artist smiled at his son, whose big eyes looked around him in shock. So innocent was Fee…and yet…

"Ezio?"

Leonardo was jolted from his thoughts; "He'll meet us here."

"Where?"

"I've no idea Fee, but he will be back."


	19. Tiresome Romagna

For Fiorentino, the adrenaline subsided quickly, and left him feeling exhausted.

The same could not be said for his father. Leonardo's heart was still thrumming an hour after entering Romagna, to the point where he was aware of every exchange that went on around them, every glance between soldiers that could indicate something more. Unlike Fee, the artist knew just how close they had come to death.

The abysmal surroundings matched Leonardo's mood. Rundown houses represented to him the failings of man. The weeds were symbolic of the corruption that ran deep under the surface, so plentiful that the people could never hope to be rid of it, while the citizens – sharp-faced, hollow eyed creatures that ambled on malnourished legs – were the inevitable result of an unfair regime.

"Maestro," Fee mumbled, pulling Leonardo from his thoughts. The artist turned to see his head drooping, as though struggling to stay awake, overwhelmed by not only the attack but the rampant poverty around them.

"Hush – rest your eyes. I will wake you when it's time to board the ship."

"Ezio."

He sighed; "When Ezio comes back."

The revised statement seemed to sate Fee, who closed his eyes without further protest. The steady hum of conversation meant Leonardo could not hear his son's breath evening out, but he soon determined he was asleep when the boy's hand reached up to clutch at his father's forearm; something he did only in deep slumber.

Rumbling along the path, the artist had time to think. His thoughts wandered over Ezio's proposal some years before, and he found himself ruminating over the advantages that training would give his son. Fiorentino would be able to protect himself – to wield a hidden blade as though it were born with him – but he would also lose that innocence his father so desperately wanted him to keep. He would be a child who knew secrets far beyond himself, and that knowledge could have weighed down heavily in years to come.

Fiorentino would be four in a few months. Venice was supposed to be their safe haven, and yet it seemed that danger would follow them no matter where they went. There was no other choice; if they were attacked again, without Ezio to defend them, they would surely be killed.

With a sigh, Leonardo made his decision.

"Maestro?"

The voice was laced with sleepiness, so soft and pure that it almost brought tears to the artist's eyes. He avoided looking at Fiorentino's face, for he knew he would go back on his decision should he see those pools of trusting affection, the innocence in them so apparent anyone would be a fool not to notice it.

"What is it, il mio figlio?"

There was no response, just a shivering body pressing closer to his. The air had become even more cold, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Leonardo cursed himself for not bringing something thicker than Fee's loose clothes.

"Perhaps we should stop in a market and try to find a blanket?" he suggested, but the boy shook his head. "Why not? Aren't you cold, Fee?"

Again he shook his head. Pressing closer to Leonardo, Fee seemed content to just lie there with him, as though he had been roused from a dream that made him realise the severity of their situation. Vacant brown eyes stared out at the austerity around them, the poverty and the sad, pallid faces, but took nothing in.

Soon, he saw the boat that would take them to Venice – not too grand, with just the right amount of craftsmanship and care to make it stand out. The mast stood proudly in the air as if to beckon them forwards, and Leonardo smiled despite the wetlands that surrounded it.

"Ah, finally," the artist let out a sigh of relief; "I was beginning to think this day would never end."

Fiorentino made no comment. He was too tired to speak, only wanting to get on the boat so he could have a proper sleep.

"Look, Fee," he struggled to raise his head when Leonardo pointed; "It's Ezio. And he's saving another damsel in distress." The artist's voice was laced with amusement and, moments after he jerked his hand again, Fee finally followed it to see Ezio on a plain-looking gondola – rowing a red headed woman through the murky waters.

They caught part of their conversation as Leonardo jumped from the seat, quick to lift his son up and place him on the floor. Ezio and the woman – the artist recognised her to be Caterina Sforza, a ruthless young wife with a thirst for power – were by then on one of the many clumps of earth that passed for solid ground.

"Perhaps we'll see each other again. Should you ever find yourself in the city of Forlì, it would be my... pleasure, to welcome you."

"I look forward to enjoying your hospitality."

Leonardo's eyes almost bugged out of his head. He assumed Ezio was bold, but he would never have thought him fearless enough to use such innuendo with Caterina Sforza.

He glanced down nervously at Fee, who had been swaying on his feet with the effort to stay awake. A worried hand came down to rest on his shoulder, steadying him, but soon lifting him up so he no longer had to stand.

"Ah, Leonardo!" Ezio finally noticed them, his face both relieved and anxious when he saw the pair; "Is Fee alright?"

"Tired, but he will be fine."

They walked towards the boat that stood proudly at the dock, itself the only 'grand' thing in the wetlands. Fiorentino's nose was pressed into his father's neck, and before they reached the vessel he could hear him snoring, lost once more in his amiable dream world.

"Have you…?"

"Yes, I have," Leonardo sighed; "I gave it some thought after we arrived, actually."

"What's your verdict, il mio amico?"

"Look at what happened, Ezio – no matter where we go, they'll find us. If you aren't here next time, what then? My son…" he found himself planting a soft kiss on Fee's black hair, "We could have died today."

The assassin said nothing. Perhaps he felt guilty; it was his fault, after all, that Rodrigo Borgia had gone after them, and it was through sheer luck that they had made it out alive.

Not that Leonardo would ever blame his friend for it. Fiorentino was his responsibility. If anything harmed the boy, it was on his head, not Ezio's.

A woman's voice called them before they reached the boat, and they slowed enough to be caught up by Caterina. She smiled first at Ezio, nodded to Leonardo, before catching sight of the sleeping Fee and giving him a soft, motherly half-smile.

"Is he yours?" she asked the artist, smiling again when he nodded, "And you're a friend of Ezio's?"

"Dear friends, Signora," he replied, careful to be respectful; "He and I have been through much together."

"What's his name?" she gestured towards Fee.

"Fiorentino."

"A strange name."

"It suits him well."

"Well, I hope to see you again soon. And you, Maestro."

"You know of me?"

"Your work is remarkable. I'm a great admirer. We must discuss some of your art, but another time. Your son seems exhausted."

Leonardo smiled; "It's been a long morning."

Ezio and Caterina exchanged pleasantries that were just a little bit more than pleasant, and finally Leonardo boarded the boat with his friend, arms still full of a sleeping three year old. He pressed soft kisses to his forehead as he placed him in the ships' bedroom, careful to tuck the blanket up around his ears.

"Sleep well, il mio garzone," he whispered; "May your dreams be kind."

Fiorentino stirred, but did not wake.

Back on the deck, he and Ezio leant on the ship's banister, waving goodbye to Caterina – a new friend? An ally? – as they set sail. Leonardo had to admit that he was glad to leave that place. Venice would give them much needed rest, and its safety, not yet disproved, would mean he and Fee could recuperate from the horrifying incident.

"Leonardo," blue eyes turned to meet Ezio's brown, which were sincere but wary, "You understand what this means, don't you? Allowing Fee's…?"

The artist crossed his arms; "Yes, I do."

"I can set his training in a way that he won't have to leave your workshop."

"That would be kind, Ezio. I don't think I have it in me to watch him leave."

"Of course," the assassin nodded, turning his head to look at the stairs leading down to the lower decks. "He's a brave boy. He will make you proud."

"I still struggle to understand how someone could have abandoned him, Ezio. You know I had my doubts about leaving Firenze, purely because I thought his mother might return?"

"You said it yourself, Leonardo – you could never bear to watch him leave. In any case, you're the boy's father now. She left him in your hands, and Fiorentino is better for it."

"It seems I'm not quite good enough."

"Don't think that," Ezio leaned forward to emphasise his words, as though being close would add depth, "Perhaps this isn't the desirable option, or the easiest path, but it will help him in times when survival is dependent on ignorance. Assassins are not the hunted, but the hunters."

Leonardo allowed a weak smile; "He's not a killer, Ezio. He's a gentle boy – he cried last week for stepping on a snail."

"He will come to realise what must be done. Harden to it."

The artist shuffled his feet on the floor.

"That's what I'm afraid of."

Fiorentino, soft and unaware, slept below them in a deep sleep, caught between the two worlds of ignorance and assassination – and soon to be pulled in a fight that was not his own.


	20. Venetian Infant

Two days later, the boat docked at Venice's grand waterfront.

Leonardo was amazed at the beautiful sight before him; the Venetian architecture that rose from the ground like a glorious angel; the people who, in outfits of varying quality, stared up at the vessel being tied to the supports; even the workmen had an air of grandeur about them, despite yelling at each other to move faster, lift heavier.

Beside him, Ezio was holding Fiorentino, and the boy was impressed. The colours were a shock to his eyes, which for so long had been looking at water and woodwork.

"It's truly amazing," Ezio drawled in a mixture of amazement and apprehension; "I must admit, Leonardo, this is an impressive place to set up shop."

"It is, isn't it?" the artist beamed, turning his attention to the silent child in his friend's arms, "What do you think, Fee? Are you glad we left Firenze?"

The name brought back Fiorentino's reluctance to accept the move, and so he merely shrugged his shoulders and nuzzled his head into Ezio's shoulder. Leonardo smiled.

"Ah, do not sulk straight away, Fee. You've yet to see our workshop."

On the dock, they were met by a strange man with neatly cropped hair and blue eyes, who spoke with such enthusiasm that it even made Fiorentino lean back. His features were weathered, but not old, and it seemed his sole purpose for living was to show them his homeland and sing its sweet praises.

"Maestro Da Vinci!" he cried when he caught sight of them; "A pleasure to have you in Venezia!"

Leonardo shook the gloved proffered hand, but Ezio kept his grip on Fee. The boy was watching their guide with mistrust, and he felt it would be irresponsible to put him down in an unknown place. Especially since so many people were milling about them.

"Ah – this must be the famous Hand-basket Baby!"

The guide had turned and caught sight of Fiorentino. His brown eyes watched as the man drew closer, still not fully trusting of a person with so much to say, and so little to talk about.

But his words confused him. He recognised the nickname – Fillipa had called him it many times before – yet, how would someone all the way from Venice know of that?

"My wife is a great admirer of that portrait, Maestro," the man explained, having not yet spoken to the boy he was staring at, "It's one of her favourite pieces. A lover of fine arts, and infants."

Ezio raised his eyebrow; "Leonardo…"

Nervous laughter followed as the guide peered at Fee; "I'm sorry, Fiorentino, but your clothes are expensive."

"Fiorentino? What a strange name. Tell me, poco uno, what do you think of Venice, hm?"

Fee looked first at the grand buildings around him, the sea of faces that would glance their way and dissipate into the crowd, and then at his father. Leonardo smiled at him, nodding wordless encouragement.

"Not Firenze," he replied, "Big."

"Excuse him," Ezio pulled the boy a little more closely to his shoulder, as though shielding both the man from his honesty and Fiorentino from the stares, "He's been through much."

The guide nodded, though he could never hope to comprehend just what the child had seen, and perhaps didn't care either way. He had been sent to do a job, after all.

"Please, follow me, Maestro. There's much I want to show you."

The trio were led around the great city in the way noblemen would be led around a prospective house. Their guide, who revealed himself to be Alvise da Vilandino, an employee of the nobleman and a baggage handler for the dockyard, spoke of the many wondrous places that could be seen in his town, of the grand designs and people who had both lived and died there. Fiorentino was overwhelmed by the many frocks and faces, the market stalls they crossed, and even the guards and their crest, which differed to those in Florence.

It was after an unpleasant view of the guards harassing a merchant that the artist checked on his son, and realised he was still in Ezio's arms after all that time.

"Ezio, don't feel as though you have to carry him," Leonardo interrupted their guide, putting his hand on Ezio's forearm, "Place him down. The exercise will do him good."

"Davvero, are you sure?"

"Yes. This is Fiorentino's home now – we must teach him not to be wary of it."

Reluctantly, the assassin placed his burden on the ground. Fee dug his heels in as though checking the concrete, before reaching up to take his father's offered hand.

The tour resumed.

"Oh, my!"

Leonardo was distracted ten minutes later by a strange market stall, which had a puppet on offer with proportions apparently similar to the human body.

"It's wonderful," the artist enthused, fiddling with the separate parts; "Ezio, could you lend me some money? I left my pouch with the luggage."

Just as the assassin moved towards the little bag on his belt, a woman burst through them. She brushed against Fee as she did, causing him to stumble, and Ezio's immediate reaction to steady him meant that he hadn't enough time to call after her, tell her to bring his money back.

"Maledizonie," Leonardo sighed as they watched her scaling a too-tall building, the guards oblivious; "I suppose we will have to come back tomorrow, Fee."

But the boy, having regained his footing (not without Ezio's help) reached into a small pocket, and produced his own pouch that Leonardo had forgotten he had. His eyes looked up, helpful and kind, which made the artist laugh.

"Thank you, Fee, but-"

"It's rude to deny a gift, Leonardo," Ezio reminded with a good-natured smile; "Take the boy's offering."

Though hesitantly, the artist took his son's money pouch, and gave him the puppet as if to reward his kindness.

"Keep hold of it, Fee. I trust you not to lose things more than I trust myself."

Glowing with the praise, Fiorentino's grip tightened.

They continued on, hearing all about the wonder that was Venice, barely paying attention as Alvise took them down the winding streets and confusing markets. It was when they reached a workshop – larger than the one in Florence, Leonardo noted – that anyone began to hear what he was saying again.

"And this, Maestro," the guide gestured to the door inside a small, rectangular alcove, "is your new workshop. My employer tells me he went through great lengths to make it feel like home."

Even as he spoke, Fiorentino wanted to say no – the place was not home, and it never would be. Just because something wore a disguise did not make it true.

Alvise held out his hands, perhaps expecting a tip, but Leonardo, ever the type to ignore or misread social convention, just patted the man's shoulder before he moved towards his new home. Fiorentino pinched the bridge of his nose as he had seen his father do before; even he could tell what the guide wanted.

Just before they went inside, however, Ezio stopped them. His mouth was quirked in a little smile, and for the first time Fee realised he had a scar on his lip.

"Mi dispacie, Leonardo; I must go to the Palazzo."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Ezio glanced down at Fee, who was staring up at him intently, "When does Fiorentino turn four?"

"I'm not sure of the exact date, but the anniversary he was given to me is in a few months. August, the twenty first."

"A few days after, expect one of my friends to pay a visit. They will teach him."

"How will I know they're from you, and not a lacchè of the guards?"

"I will send them with one of the solved Codex pages. Fiorentino."

The boy reacted to his name with a raise of the head, watching as Ezio knelt down to speak to him at eye-level. He was used to that with Leonardo, but not another adult. They usually ignored him or, if they did acknowledge his presence, it was only to pet and prod him like a strange creature.

"You behave while I am away, sì? You and I will be working together soon."

Fee looked up at Leonardo, and then back at Ezio. He had heard them talking in hushed tones, heard them speaking about him learning something – something that caused his father distress – but he had no idea what it was, or that he would be working with the man he so admired.

"Perdono?"

"Fear not; it will all become clear in time."

The assassin rose, and Fiorentino was picked up by the artist. They parted again, not knowing when he himself would return, but with the looming threat of his unknown friend; someone who would teach Fee, as he would find out, to become something he was not.

As they inspected the workshop, which was identical to Florence's, if a little bigger, Fee could sense his father's weariness. He turned to see his eyes lingering over some blank canvases, and heard him sigh.

"Fee, do you mind doing some modelling for me?" he asked, not turning to face the boy as he clasped a hand around his chin, which he often did when he was deep in thought; "I want to capture you as you are."

"Why?"

"Trust me, Fiorentino."

And because he did, Fee nodded.


	21. With Friends Like These

Fiorentino's fourth birthday came around sooner than Leonardo would have liked. He woke up that morning in a cold sweat, shaken by a dream of contorted Templars standing over his son's hooded body, and with no idea if it was truly a dream or a vision of the future.

Beside him, Fee's face was pressed into the pillow, his hair sticking up in all directions as he slept. His bottom lip was jutting out and Leonardo found himself mesmerised for a moment; the blend of love and affection he felt for his son was enough to calm his fears.

"Fee," he said softly, rousing the boy with a gentle shake of his shoulder; "Wake up, Fee. Buon compleanno."

All he got in return was a displeased grumble, and Fiorentino's face being pressed further into the pillow. The artist laughed as he bounced to his feet. It was rare that Fee refused to wake up, but whenever it did happen usually a walk was enough to cajole him.

"Come, come," Leonardo chuckled, plucking the boy from the bed; "Breakfast and a walk are in order, I think. You and I can celebrate by looking at some more buildings, no?"

They had been in Venice for a few months – enough time to settle in, meet the assistants Leonardo's friendly nobleman had hired. Fiorentino had even made friends with the little girl that lived down the road, but, being a shy boy, it was a slow bond, and the girl's mother would often chuckle to the artist that it was more like an early courtship, so chivalrous was Fee's nature.

Unsurprisingly, after Leonardo had sent the letters, Magdalena was the first to have replied. It was perhaps the most detailed description he had ever had of his old workshop, now apparently 'neglected and stagnate, with cobwebs where art used to hang.' The woman's writings were like a muted hysteria, and a pang of anguish went through him when he thought how deluded she must have been to still believe herself in love with him.

Fillipa had been a few days after Magdalena, and Laura was last. The latter had given birth to a healthy baby girl beforehand, so most of her letter was about that, whereas Fillipa's was about her son's own apathy now that Fiorentino had left. They had been close, she decided, behind the scenes of their indifference towards each other.

"Do you know why this birthday is important, Fee?" the artist asked as he put their breakfast on the table, stuffed with basic sketches, and placed at the farthest wall so they could see the workshop. The flying machine was proudly strung up to the ceiling in the little alcove to the left, where Leonardo had put shelves and stuffed them with books, while around them lay unfinished paintings, rudimentary designs for strange devices, or the odd standing statuette that was to serve as a sort of makeshift model.

"Ezio. Assassins," the child's mouth was full of cheese as he spoke. He had been briefed on numerous occasions what was planned for him, but without any reason to fear he didn't anticipate it as much as Leonardo. There was no apprehension in his voice.

Then again, there was no understanding.

"Please swallow before you speak, Fee," Leonardo admonished, and then; "But you are right. This birthday is the last birthday before your training begins."

Fiorentino looked up at him as he took a bite of bread. His cheeks bulged, and Leonardo found himself smiling despite the tense atmosphere.

"Listen to me, Fiorentino. I must tell you something now that I haven't told you before."

He was gifted with his son's instant attention, perhaps because the tone of his voice was so sombre, or perhaps because the boy never seemed to disobey. It was rare to have a child so willing to accept their parent's rule.

"What the assassini teach you…much of it will seem strange, perhaps even scare you, but you must learn it all, do you understand?"

Brown eyes were fraught with confusion. Fiorentino placed the half-eaten bread back on his plate – a brass thing, meant only for temporary use until Leonardo's assistants washed their new tableware – and cocked his head to one side, as though his father was something to be studied.

"Do…do…" he was struggling with the words, mouth working like he was chewing something too strong; "Do assassini…hurt?"

"Do they hurt…you?"

"No," Fee shook his head, "People?"

Leonardo fell silent. How could he tell his son of the killings, the things he was expected to carry out one day? Fiorentino was an innocent despite his mysterious start in life, and to shatter that with the thought of spilling blood…

"Fee..." he sighed; "You know the bodies in the back of the shop, yes? The ones I tell you not to go near?"

"Research ca-cadavers?"

"Yes – the cadavers." Leonardo took a deep breath, "Sometimes, people need to die for the greater good. Those cadavers help me understand the body's inner workings, and from that I can understand how to help dottores cure people's ills. But I would never have been able to do that if those cadavers hadn't been given to me; if people hadn't died."

"But…I…" Fiorentino's eyes moistened, but the artist went on.

"What Ezio does is much the same, but in a different way. He makes sure those who hurt us can never do it again. That's what the Assassin order does."

There was silence for a moment. Fee pushed his plate away with sad eyes, comprehending what he was being told but not liking any of it, before he looked up and fixed Leonardo with a trusting gaze.

"I'm scared."

Leonardo instantly got up from his seat, food untouched, and went to crouch beside his son, who buried his face the familiar clothed shoulder and allowed himself to be lifted. He was getting heavier, the artist noted, but not so heavy that he was impossible to pick up.

"Don't be, Fee. Ezio will keep you safe, and the skills you gain will help you. I wish it were not so – perhaps it would have been better if you were given to someone else."

He had never meant to say it aloud, but Fiorentino seemed shocked at the very idea of being given to someone else. His arms tightened around his father's neck as though laying claim to him, making him realise just how much their bond meant to the boy in his arms.

"No. Love you, Maestro."

"And I love you, Fifi."

"Not Fifi!" Fiorentino raised his head to look at his father, a good-natured smile on his face.

"Truly?" the artist faked surprise; "You're not a girl?"

"No!"

The child laughed; the first laugh Leonardo had heard all morning. Breakfast was a pleasant affair afterwards, and when they took to the town for their walk, it was in a more festive mood, one that suited the day's special status.

It was when they came to a small child crying that Leonardo made them stop. The girl was older than Fee – about seven, maybe eight – and her hair was dirty, her eyes red and bloodshot. The artist was swayed by her horrible state.

"What is it, little one? What's your name?"

She did not answer him, but instead pointed up at a small bird that had flown into one of the pillars that lined the Venetian canals. On its leg, there was a note.

_A disobedient carrier pigeon,_ the artist thought as he peered at it, _Banes of modern existence. Ah, how can I help? It's much too high._

Around them, people either walked passed or stopped to inspect the crying child, looking up as Leonardo did to the small pigeon in the pillar. It was Fiorentino's tugging at the artist's sleeve that snatched his attention back.

"Assassini!" he said, which caused Leonardo to drop down to one knee and instantly shush him.

"Not here, Fee. We mustn't speak of the assassins in public."

"Help!" he pointed at the pillar and then his feet, trying to convey through hand gestures what he was too young to say himself; "Help!"

Leonardo gave him a blank stare, and then realised what he was saying. Without delay the artist lifted his son up, careful to let him balance as he put his heels on the palm of his father's hands and reached up, snatching the bird by the leg for he was too small to reach anything else. The people were in stunned silence as Fee was brought back down. It was not for the random act of kindness that they were amazed, but for the fact that he hadn't fallen, that his balance was so precise for someone so young.

The girl had stopped crying long enough to take the bird from Fiorentino's proffered hand, and when she planted a grateful kiss on his cheeks a faint blush rose there. Leonardo had to suppress his laughter; Fee's shyness was one of his most adorable traits.

"Grazie," she smiled.

"Macché."

When they walked away from the girl and her troublesome pet, Fiorentino reached up and gripped Leonardo's hand, smiling at him as he said; "Help. Help without hurting."

The artist said nothing.


	22. Training and Judgement

Three days after Fiorentino's birthday, the visitor Leonardo had been dreading arrived on their doorstep.

The girl that had thieved Ezio's pouch when they first came to Venice stood there, expectant, the hint of a smile on her face. She had black hair hidden under a dirty makeshift hat, and her skin was pale, just like the blue eyes that were now staring into Leonardo's own.

"Buongiorno Maestro," she greeted. He mused he heard traces of pain in her voice, perhaps from a recent wound, which made sense since she was leaning heavily on some sort of crutch. "My name is Rosa. I'm here at Ezio's request."

"He said he would give you something to prove who you were."

Delaying the inevitable, but Leonardo wanted to make sure this woman, no matter how sincere she looked, was truly Ezio's friend and not a spy sent by the guard. His trust when it came to the assassins was marred by experience, though he would still often give it too easily.

"Sì, he gave me this," she handed him a small parchment – one he had seen and solved before; "He claimed it would make sense to you, but I do not see how."

He made a show of unravelling it to make sure it was solved, but there was no denying his work. It was one of the first Codex pages he had ever deciphered for Ezio; the one that had fascinated him most, he recalled, since it employed a certain type of medicine to poison unsuspecting targets.

"Come in," he gestured for her to enter the cool workshop; "Sit down so we may talk. How were you injured?"

The thief followed him despite her trepidation, and was amazed to see the wonders that lay within. A strange contraption with wings was strung from a small alcove's ceiling, itself more like a personal library with a study desk placed in the middle, whereas in the centre was a multitude of unfinished portraits and designs. A dozen statuettes were placed on unpacked boxes in various poses, centred around a wooden puppet that had its hand up to a blank beige face, one placed under its chin as though contemplating something – perhaps the grand portrait that was opposite it, the only complete one there.

When she turned to see it, she found that the portrait was of a young boy. Black hair was shaded in a way that made it look like light had fallen on it at that precise moment, and his brown eyes seemed to have a depth to them, a kindness and hope that was rare even in children. Mesmerised by the details, the thief almost forgot that Leonardo was in the room.

"That's my son, Fiorentino," the artist told her, surprising her with a glass of water and a soft, sad sort of smile; "No doubt Ezio's told you about him."

"The boy I'm here to train? He seems so…"

There was no word to describe it. She had prepared herself for a young apprentice, knowing that he would be taking his first steps into a dark and dangerous world, but the portrait made her hesitant. There was that kindness she hadn't expected, of course. The innocence in his eyes was also cause for alarm, for who in their right mind would want to defile something so pure? They were not Templars. They at least mourned for the loss of blissful ignorance.

She sipped at the water with a grateful smile, but her eyes never left the portrait. It hadn't even occurred to her that the model would be somewhere in the shop; it took a small voice to catch her attention again, followed by the trample of footsteps on some hidden staircase.

"Il mio dio – be _careful_, Fee! You could fall and break your neck!"

Rosa turned her head to see Leonardo leaning through a door, which she hadn't noticed since it blended in so well with the designs. Beyond it, there was the indication of a staircase, and from the shadows that built up in the unlit tunnel came a small boy, dressed in loose fitting, training-appropriate clothes.

"Mi dispiace, Maestro."

"No you're not."

The artist ruffled the boy's hair as though to say it was alright, and a thin, almost imperceptible ambience of mourning filled the air.

_It must be hard,_ Rosa thought as she sipped her drink; _Ezio told me Leonardo was very reluctant to let his son train. I can see why._

Fiorentino turned at that moment and caught sight of her. He instantly moved so he was hiding behind his father's legs, which were just about wide enough to shield his whole body, and all Rosa could see was a single brown eye peek out from the side, as though terrified of the newcomer.

"He's shy," Leonardo mouthed to her before half-turning to the boy; "No need to be afraid, Fee. This is Rosa. Ezio sent her to teach you."

"Assassino?" he asked, his voice small and hesitant, since the question was aimed at her.

"No," she laughed, "I'm no assassin. I'm from the thieves' guild, little one. My job is to teach you to free-run."

"No hurting?"

"No. Defending and fleeing."

Her words seemed to comfort Fee. He reluctantly extracted himself from his hiding spot and gave her a closer look, which was when he noticed the ugly, large crutch that she was using as a walking aid.

"Hurt?"

Before she had time to respond, the child was pushing a chair towards her that had been thrust up against a wall. The concern in his eyes was perplexing. Was he not afraid of her only a few moments before?

"Please, sit down," Leonardo gestured as he took his own seat. "The injury?"

"An arrow from one of the guards."

Fee's eyes grew wider in alarm, but then dulled once more. He had heard a few horror stories from his friend down the road; he assumed a great deal of them were made up, though.

"How awful. How did you escape?"

"Ezio saved me. He was in the right place at the right time, I suppose." Rosa turned her attention to the boy, who had clambered into Leonardo's lap. "He told me to relay the training plans to you."

"Yes, of course."

"I'm to teach him free running and basic thieving, but as you can see, I'm no fighter." She shook her head with a slight chuckle. "At least, not in the assassin ideal. To fight as they do, Fiorentino is going to need a true assassin mentor."

"Who is that?"

"Mario Auditore will make visits and train as best he can, but they will always be short stays – Ezio tells me there is much he has to do in Monteriggioni. However, there are others he will send, some you may not know, and they will teach the boy to fight."

"Don't want to," Fiorentino protested as he craned his head towards his father; "No hurting."

Leonardo pressed his nose into the crown of his son's head to comfort him. "Remember what we talked about."

"But-"

"Fee."

The child fell silent. His face, however, showed a million conflicting emotions; the desire to do what was right, and the desire to do what was best.

"Ezio has assured me he will send the child's robes. They will be temporary and, as he grows, can be replaced. Mario will have more on that than I do; I'm not in the business of hoods."

"Is there anything else?"

"We start training today, and throughout the week, Fiorentino is expected to have at least four sessions, with practices to do every day."

Leonardo nodded. He was good with remembering things, but four times a week in the training field was a strain, and it left little time to do anything else.

"I think perhaps two training sessions a week would be best. I still want Fee to learn how to read and write."

"Perhaps two for now – he's still young – but afterwards, it has to go up to four. Ezio was adamant."

_Yes, _Leonardo thought with a sigh; _Ezio would be._


	23. The Visitor's News

It was three years before Mario came to inspect Fiorentino's progress. At seven years old, he had learnt how to free run from rooftop to rooftop, to climb what could not be climbed, and to see the surface's beauty for what it truly was – a guise from which darkness seeped in every guarded corner.

But despite his brutal regime, the boy had not yet had to kill anyone, and he confided to Leonardo in many of his reading lessons that he hoped he never would.

"Ah, there's our young assassino!" Mario called out when he entered the workshop. Fiorentino, still shy of strangers, made a move to hide behind his father, but Leonardo was too close to the new man for his liking and so he chose to stand his ground.

Mario was a stout man, with one scarred milky eye next to an injured brown and a thick head of hair that hung down past his shoulders. He looked like Ezio, but an older version of him, who had seen more and kept no illusion of what went on below the surface.

"He's quite the student, I hear," the stranger moved forward and put his hand on Fee's shoulder, which caused him to jerk slightly as though the touch was scalding, "My men assure me he's not to be trifled with. Not bad for a seven year old, eh?"

Fiorentino looked at Leonardo with a familiar question in his eyes. The artist nodded, giving him not only permission to speak but the wordless encouragement that Mario was a friend, not a genial spy.

"That I might one day uphold our ideals is an honour." the boy said, his voice small and humble as he bowed in recognition of Mario's status. He even put his hand to the left side of his chest as he did so, to show that he took his teachings with the utmost of seriousness.

"Ah, so respectful! This is definitely the sort of attitude we need in the Order. Leonardo, you have a fine boy."

"I do."

Fiorentino glanced across the well-lit workshop and felt his lips rise to a smile, mirrored by his father's own.

The pair were close; they would go for walks together in between lessons and, though Fee preferred writing to artwork, he would occasionally sit beside the painter and help him work, either by observing and making comments or just keeping him company. Their bond had strengthened through the years, and Leonardo believed it would be stronger than whatever hardships lay in their path.

Mario was given a drink of wine and a plate of snacks, all the while reporting what he had been told about Fiorentino's progress. The artist listened, for he was interested to learn more about his son's conversion from infant to boy, and held a slight amount of trepidation for what made an assassin man.

"Well, he's by no means a prodigy," Mario told him as he swallowed some more cheese; "But, he's a fast learner. Siate orgogliosi, Maestro. He will make a wonderful addition to our Order, especially when he's completed his training."

Fiorentino sat in the darkest corner of the room, which was just on top of a shelf that Leonardo had used to cover a painting mishap. The sunlight that streamed through the windows didn't reach there, avoiding it as though it were plagued by some treacherous evil, and so it was cooler, and enabled him to watch and listen to the men's discussion at a better angle. His leg hung down from the shadow as he rested his chin on the opposite knee, clasping his hands just below it to better his balance.

"I'm curious; does the training intensify?" Leonardo asked.

"Yes, it does. Soon, Fiorentino will be old enough to go on assignments."

"Assignments?!"

"Nothing too difficult – spying, reporting on enemy activity, even some fetching and rescuing."

"It sounds dangerous," the artist felt his heart beating at a mile a minute. He could imagine Fee balancing on a shadowed ledge in some Templar's Palazzo, gaining information about something or other, when he would slip and tumble straight into their midst. An execution would be inevitable. They may not have even given him a trial, just killed him on the spot.

Mario nodded; "That it is, but it's necessary. The assassini must be prepared to do what others are too afraid to. Isn't that right, my boy?"

Fiorentino jerked his head back but, when he realised they could only see his leg, he replied; "Yes."

_It's a good thing Mario is a man,_ Leonardo thought as his mind tried to comprehend the danger; _Otherwise, Fee wouldn't even speak to him, let alone these one-word answers._

Fiorentino was still shy by nature, and only shed his self-consciousness when he was training. He struggled to speak to ladies and lords, and to children his own age, for he was used to the indoors and the self-seclusion of a scholarly life. There was only one this rule didn't apply to – Isabella, the girl who lived down the street, and who took a great interest in the secrecy of Fee's life.

"When do you expect he will start being given these?"

"He's what, seven? Give it a year. At eight, he will be old enough and small enough to do things we other assassins cannot."

"Eight?" Leonardo felt his heart give a sudden shudder, "That's-"

"The assassinations themselves won't start until he's at least eleven, so worry not, il mio amico."

Fiorentino's leg disappeared into the shadows. Leonardo saw the movement out of the corner of his eye, but the boy made no sound. He knew what was going through his head; his vain hope that his allegiance would be kill-free, that his membership in such a secretive organisation would be a passive one…his son was beginning to lose hope that his peaceful and kind disposition would be left intact.

"Ah, but enough of this talk!" Mario declared, placing the goblet he had been balancing in one hand down; "Fiorentino, I think it's time you showed me some of your skills. Come – there's much I need to pass on to you!"


	24. First Assignment, Last Rites

Ezio had been meaning to visit Leonardo and his little Fee, but obstacles had popped up along the way.

So when he found himself going to their workshop with another request, he felt rude for it. Leonardo would welcome him as though no time had passed at all, and Fee…well, Fee was an enigma. The boy was quiet and shy, though he had proven himself a good apprentice. His first assignment had yet to be given but, as the years drew on, the Templars seemed to gain even more ground, and soon enough Ezio would need all the support he could get.

When he reached the door, he heard faint sounds inside. Feet shuffling along a stone floor. Something being put down on a hard surface. Muted voices talking over a crackling fire. There was one he didn't recognise, but it had been a long time since Ezio visited and he knew Fee had recently turned eight, so the smaller voice must have been him.

With another deep breath, he knocked on the door.

"Fiorentino, can you answer that?"

"Sì, Maestro."

_Always so obedient, little Fee, _Ezio thought with a smile.

The door was unlocked, for the boy managed to open it without any effort. Ezio saw first the kind, soft eyes that were so inherently Fee's, then took into account his face, its tanned skin that was hidden beneath a hood not unlike his own in clothes that matched his, though his outfit lacked the trademark assassin's belt and its multitude of weapons.

"Ezio?" came the soft voice, then louder; "Ezio!"

Two strong arms wrapped around his neck as Fiorentino jumped up, all shyness forgotten as he set eyes on the familiar face. Ezio he remembered from his infancy, one of the only people he could remember, and it brought him joy to see someone who had done so much to defend them.

"Ah, Fee!" the assassin laughed, wrapping his arms around the boy's waist; "It's good to see you, il mio garzone. How goes the training?"

Fiorentino's eyes lost a hint of their vibrancy, but his answer was enthusiastic, "Well. Come in – Maestro, it's Ezio!"

Leonardo, having heard his son's outburst, had stood from his most recent painting and was already on his way over, smiling as though Ezio had only been gone for a short while. He was as the assassin remembered him; stunningly bright blue eyes and a warm smile, his straw blond hair trimmed so it was just a little above his shoulders.

"Ezio, my friend!" he greeted as they embraced one another; "How nice of you to visit. It's been a long time."

"Yes, too long. I meant to come sooner, but…"

"Speak no more of it – your work keeps you busy."

"It seems you can say the same," Ezio gestured to the grand workshop around them.

The walls were now littered with Leonardo's paintings, each one with an unknown quality that made them so very valuable. The desk was covered in books and sketches, some of which were Fiorentino's, and there were a few leather-bound notebooks with the child's name that were placed haphazardly across the room. Every corner seemed to be filled with either an unfinished painting or a statuette, and the thought of how his friend got anything done crossed Ezio's mind.

"Fee, fetch Ezio something to eat and drink."

The boy obeyed. They watched as he scampered off into the stairwell at the back, where there must have been a door into a kitchen, and then Leonardo turned to give Ezio another smile.

"It's so nice to see you again, my friend. How are things?"

As they spoke, they moved to one of the clearer tables in the shop, where there were but a few supplies and notebooks scattered. Leonardo cleared them with one sweep of his arm, pushing them to the furthest end so they could sit and lean on the table top.

"My missions go well, but I've run into problems."

"As is the nature of all professions," the artist chuckled as Fiorentino appeared, his arms full of cheese, wine, and a strange type of bread that must have been imported, "Thank you, Fee. You may go back to your reading now."

For a moment, the child lingered, as though he had something to say but did not quite know how to say it, before he turned and disappeared back to the fire. Ezio watched while he curled into a comfortable looking chair in front of it, picking up a book that lay open on the floor.

"Leonardo," his voice dropped in volume to keep their conversation between them; "I need your help. To save the Doge, I need access into the Palazzo Ducale di Venezia, and the only way to infiltrate is through the roof."

"That sounds dangerous, even with your skills. How can I help?"

Ezio smiled – if it weren't for Leonardo's support, he would never have had any hope in his quest; "Your flying machine. I need to use it."

"Ezio…" the artist sighed, turning his head to the strung-up contraption, "I've yet to test it. And the designs are not accurate, I fear. Unless there's a strong gust of wind, or something abnormal in the weather, it won't take off."

The assassin noticed Fiorentino's book lower slightly. Their voices had raised enough for him to hear, and two eyes peeked over the corner of his chair, watching the two men discuss something not meant for children's ears.

"I'm willing to test it, Leonardo. If I do not, I fear what the consequences might be; both for me and Venezia."

"We might test it then, but I have no high hopes."

The flight test, of course, was a failure.

It had been done in the early hours of the morning, when Fiorentino had gone out for his training and Leonardo was left to his work. Afterwards, the artist lamented his failed project, tossing the plans in the fire in a fit of rage not suited to his usually cool temperament. As he fell back in the stool opposite it, he pondered on why he bothered with such useless pursuits, when a fluttering caught his eye.

"Yes…yes, of course!"

Ezio looked up from where he had been inspecting Fiorentino's books; "What is it, Leonardo?"

"Like this piece of paper, we need fire to make the machine fly."

"Would that not just set the whole thing ablaze?"

"We won't be using it on the machine, Ezio; we need your allies to help us. If we make small fires in set locations, you can fly over them, therefore giving the device more chance to maintain its altitude."

"I understand only some of what you just said, amico," the assassin admitted, walking up to stand beside him as he put his hand on Leonardo's shoulder, "But I trust you."

The artist smiled his gratitude.

"We'll send Fee out with the message; it will be his first assignment."

Spirits were high, and Fiorentino took his duty without regret, thankful that it was something tame rather than a dark, winding alley of death and carnage. At eight years old he leapt between the Venetian rooftops, diving through the shadows that homed thieves and murderers, as he worked his way through the list of names that had been given to him at home.

He remembered what Leonardo had said before he went out. The artist had smiled at him, and placed a kiss on the crown of his head as was handed the list. There was pride in his eyes when he spoke.

"Whatever happens tonight, Fee, know you have made me a proud man."

"I will make you prouder, Maestro."

As he glided underneath that sky of distant diamonds, and met men and women who fought his cause, the young boy felt that his troubles were long behind him. His first assassin assignment would be one of many, he believed, that would not include killing, nor would it cause him much strain in the way of preparation.

It was when he delivered his final letter that things went wrong.

Jumping across the rooftops to make his way home, he was happy. He was eager, even, to see Leonardo and tell him the news – all the letters had been given, all the places set, and he had seen Ezio soaring through the sky like the most majestic of eagles, with the people he had seen that same night fanning the flames.

Just as he went to leap down onto a stack of boxes and begin walking through the streets, a hand snagged his hood.

"Assassino!" he heard a voice bark, the familiar clink of metal as he was yanked upwards; "An assassino!"

His reaction was quick.

With a great lunge, Fee twisted his body until he felt his hood and neck-hole loosen, and then swung his blade-arm round without a second thought. The glint of metal against the moonlight was soon masked by a fountain of red, and he felt warm liquid ooze from the shining blade to his arm, coating his white robes until they were not white at all.

The initial rush of adrenaline dissipated. Fee was left standing there, his hidden blade still deployed deeply into the guard's neck, with a horrified look on his face as he watched the man struggle.

"Assassino!" he was still gurgling, convulsing every few moments as he sank down to his knees. Fiorentino's arm came round to support him and lower him to the ground, where his blood pooled like that of an eerie pond.

"No…" the boy whispered, realising what he had done, "No, no; this can't…I didn't mean to…"

"Assass…Assassino…"

The guard's eyes were quickly losing light. They looked up at Fee as his hand wandered to the wound in his neck, still spouting red, and all the while he panted 'assassino' with the few breaths he had left.

"Please, hold on. I can get you help. I can find a dottore. Just hang on," Fiorentino's hands pressed against the man's wound, but they weren't enough to stem the flow, "Please, just keep breathing."

A heavy gloved hand came to rest on Fee's. The boy looked at his face to see two eyes – pale green, he guessed, but it was too dark to know for sure – glaring at him, bitter hatred the only emotion aside from fear.

"Bastardo…"

The man's twitching stopped. His chest became still. All hatred died from his eyes as the light went with it, and Fiorentino was left with the cold shell that was the human body for the imperfect soul.

"No…" tears stung his eyes as he shook the corpse, "No! Please, please wake up! Please! I beg of you, stop this!"

But it was no use. As the horror of what he had done truly took effect, Fiorentino stood, still covered in the blood that was now congealing on the rooftop. In the distance, he heard shouts; people calling for someone named Ambrosi.

The boy glanced up to see shadows moving towards him. With a final look at the dead body, the man named Ambrosi, Fee turned round and leapt to the floor, where he took off running towards the workshop, still covered in blood.

When he crashed through the door, Leonardo was already home, humming away to himself as he cleaned some of the art supplies. Moonlight mingled with candles to give the shop a soft glow – the exact opposite of Fee's horrified state.

"Ah, Fee! Congratulations, ben fatto! You-"

Leonardo stopped dead when he turned.

His son's white robes were stained a dead red, to the point where it was difficult to tell what colour they were before. His face was covered in the stuff, too, which made Leonardo realise the horror that was in them, how they had gone from soft to sickened.

"Fee," he said in the softest voice possible, "What happened?"

"I…I didn't mean to…" Fiorentino mumbled as though trying to piece it together in his mind; "I was…running…and then someone…my hood…I…I stabbed him…but I didn't…"

Leonardo strode over to take the boy in his arms. Fee swayed until both of them collapsed onto their knees, and the artist began to stroke soothing circles into his son's back, trying to calm him down.

"Ambrosi…"

"Shh now, il mio gentile Fee."

"My blade..."

He twisted his wrist away from them so he could let it out, and Leonardo was shocked to see just how bloody it was. Not one bit of metal seemed to glint out from underneath, not even in the soft candlelight, or the moon that streamed from the window.

"I murdered him…Maestro…I murdered him."

"No, no, Fee, it was-"

"Murder…Assassino…" tears finally broke free from Fiorentino's eyes, causing a near waterfall to begin trickling down his face, "Bastardo."

As the night rode on, there Leonardo knelt with his son, rocking him back and forth until the cold dawn broke over the horizon, and feeling his heart break as his gentle Fee did too.


	25. Nobility and Morality

In the dead of night, when the whole world slept, Leonardo watched his son huddled in his favourite chair, looking into the crackling flame in the fireplace as untold horror flooded through his eyes, and washed all that had been pure and innocent in a deep, bloody glow.

Two days ago, he had just been a little boy with an odd hobby. His life revolved around lessons and preparation for a future that might have never happened. The only odd thing about Fee, other than his lack of rowdiness and his wide, kind eyes, was the way he had come to live the comfortable life of an artist's son.

But that was over now. All sense of comfort was gone, all sense of belonging vanished, and for the first time in his life Fiorentino felt like a bastardo. The fire he sat in front provided no warmth. In the flames, all he could see were the guard's cold, dead eyes, staring up at him as the bloody pool became more like a tar that would swallow the body whole.

"Fee…" Leonardo tried to find words that would comfort him. But when his son raised his head and fixed him with a silent stare, the artist fell silent, realising that nothing could banish the horror from his mind.

There was a moment in which all was still. The firelight crawled over the room to chase dark shadows into the corners, where they lingered as though to taunt the boy. Leonardo had lit some candles, but these mingled and were lost to the stronger light thrown out by the fireplace, and so no one noticed their soft and unobtrusive glow.

Then; "Am I a bad person, Maestro?"

"No," he replied without hesitation, "Not at all."

"Then why do I feel like one?"

"Because your nature was never meant for this path, Fee. But sometimes, we're victims of circumstance, and caged by the times."

Fiorentino comprehended what he said for a moment. As he brought his knees closer to him and clasped his hands together, Leonardo thought he was trying to make himself as small as possible, like he could disappear into thin air if only he were smaller.

"It was never your fault, Fee. You did what you had to do to survive. They would have executed you."

"So instead, I executed him." The boy opened his hand again, and the bloodied blade appeared as a dark silhouette in front of the fire. He turned it, reliving the horror in his mind. "It was worse than a hanging would have been. He died by my hand. He…would still be alive, were it not for this blade."

It disappeared again with the sound of sheathing metal. Fiorentino pulled his hand back to his body once more and stared into the flickering flames, which were slowly dying, the logs deep within disintegrating into ash.

Leonardo had no idea what to say. He had hoped Fee would be much older when it was his turn to assassinate, if he had to at all. But an eight year old boy? Eight years old, and already with such a damning experience to haunt his mind?

"It hasn't changed you."

Fee looked up. His eyes were dull, but still kind, as though it was something intrinsic that couldn't be squashed in one night, perhaps not ever.

"What happened tonight hasn't changed you," Leonardo repeated, rising slowly from the table stool to walk over to him, "At least, not in my eyes. You're still Fee. Il mio gentile Fee."

As he approached the chair, his mind mused that Fiorentino shrunk away, terrified to be touched in his disturbed state. When he crouched down to the boy's eye-level, though, there was no hiding himself; just a desperate plea in his eyes that never quite reached his mouth.

"I killed today," he reminded him, as if he needed the reminder.

"And Ezio kills every day – still, I remain his friend, not because I have to, but because I believe in my heart that he's not a bad person inside. His actions are born out of love."

"My actions were born from misjudgement."

"No, that they were not. If you had allowed yourself to be arrested, and then executed, my heart would have withered and my love would be dead with you. There's no such thing as an absolute right or wrong, Fee; a questionable act can lead to a good consequence much the same as it can lead to a bad one."

The boy shook his head as he tried to understand all that Leonardo was telling him. He had believed, in the childish manner, that there were no questions when it came to morality. Good men would do good things, and it would lead to goodness. Bad men did bad things, and that would lead to evil. Now his father, the best man he knew, was telling him things were not always so black and white.

"I don't understand."

Leonardo smiled and ruffled his hair; "It's hard, but you will. Just remember what I've told you, and this."

The boy leaned forward as his father lowered his voice. It was as though he was imparting a secret that wasn't meant for human ears – he half-turned his face away to check the door, and peered at Fee with his left eye just a little closer than his right, hand up with index and thumb pressed together as he gave him a surreptitious smile.

"No matter what happens, no matter who comes into our life and tries to make a mess of things, you will always, _always_ be my son. Do you understand?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Fee nodded.

Leonardo stood up, ruffling his son's hair once more as he languidly moved back to his chair.

A shadow across the window caught there attention, and when a frantic knocking sounded at the door Fiorentino was certain he had been found. Someone had seen him fleeing from the body. He was unafraid as Leonardo went to answer it; it was a life for a life, murder met by retribution, and he was ready to accept his fate for what he had done to Ambrosi.

But when the artist let the door swing open, there was no battalion. It seemed for a split second that there was only darkness. But then he saw a silhouette almost black in the small alcove the entrance was built into.

Ezio had returned.

"Grazie, Leonardo, for the use of your machine," he said to the artist as he strode in, his manner quiet and subdued, when he noticed the little boy huddled in the chair; "And you, Fee. If it weren't for your quick feet, I never would have gone as far as I did."

Leonardo noticed the difference in his friend's air. There was something off; the hunched shoulders and the angry glint in his eyes, even the smell of regret and anguish.

"But I suppose it didn't go as planned?"

Ezio managed a weary smile; "Leonardo, you know me too well. The Doge was killed, but I was able to avenge him, at the very least."

"So our mission was in vain."

Fiorentino slouched back in his chair with a look of unmasked defeat. It was one of the first times Ezio had seen him like it, for his usual passive nature was always presented in a smile or a straight face, with mistrust lingering in the recesses.

"I don't understand-"

"Ezio," the assassin turned back to his friend, who moved until his shoulder was at his chest and his lips were closer to his ear; "There was a guard."

A moment's pause, and then the news clicked. Ezio turned in shock as he realised what must have happened; the eight year old had come across trouble during his journey and, in the face of prosecution, had had to defend himself. It was…horrific. Not that someone had died, but by the hand of someone so young, someone with such an abhorrence for violence.

"Fee…I'm sorry."

The boy didn't look up from the fire.

"If I had known you would be seen or caught, I would never…" the assassin let his words trail off. What could be said? The damage was done. Fiorentino's actions would stain his mind forever, like the death of his family stained Ezio's, and misdeeds gone by stained Leonardo's.

"What's done is done," Fiorentino's voice caught their attention, the dark bulk of his body shifting in his chair; "I killed a man."

It was Ezio's turn to be silent.

"My training is tomorrow. I suppose now, there's no other path for me. I'm an assassino."

Leonardo wanted so to tell him that one mistake didn't mean his future, but he said nothing. Instead, he stood beside his friend in a muted, shocked state, hands holding one another as he swayed imperceptibly on his feet.

The boy looked up at them, that dull horror in his eyes as he muttered; "Our order is a noble one. Our methods…not so."


	26. Play with Knives

Venice was preparing for the wonderful Carnevale.

Fiorentino hid in the shadows as the sun beat down on the clearing, where decorations were being hung and stands erected, the helpers polishing masks that were late to be sent out. Silver eclipsed the sun and shone light in the corners where he was tucked away, but thankfully they never revealed him.

Another year had passed, and in that time Fee had become an accomplished if reluctant killer. Eight people were dead by his hand – seven of them guards, and one a Templar informant. The regularity did nothing to calm his mind, though, or make him believe that he was anything more than a murderer.

The Doge was going to attend his own celebration. He was a Templar, an enemy to the people in the guise of a leader, and Ezio would rid the world of him much the same as he had rid it of Francesco de Pazzi and his son, Vieri. It was Fee's job to scout out the territory and report back, supposedly easy, while Ezio sought out Sister Teodora and his recent friend, the thief Antonio.

When he had caught sight of the stands in which all the games would be run, Fiorentino left. He glided over the rooftops like a swan over water, for his body was used to running and finding bridges where there were none, discovering small alcoves where he could hide or lure his pursuers to their deaths. It was a skill he had perfected since Ambrosi. It hadn't helped him keep his hands free of blood, but it was practical.

"Fiorentino," the artist welcomed as soon as his son appeared through an open window, which was left ajar so he could slip in and out unnoticed. Leonardo had been preparing for Carnevale since he was told he would have to attend, but had worried about going without his son. The boy would no doubt preoccupy himself reading; that did nothing to quell the anxiety in his heart, or the want to remain at hand should his son need him in any way.

"The Carnevale is soon to be opened," Fee said, nodding towards the waning sunlight that slanted through the windows; "and the Doge will be at his gathering."

"Are you sure you don't want to attend, Fee? I could use someone intelligent at my side."

"I will be there, but in the shadows. If Ezio calls on me…" he trailed off. As much as he liked his mentor and protector, the methods their order used were starting to weigh down on him, and he wondered every now and again if he was just a pawn in another's game. The thought made him nervous. He had no idea why.

"You should come. Have fun. I think young Isabella will be there," Leonardo gave him a teasing smile; "You two are inseparable enough."

It was true; Isabella and Fiorentino were close friends, whose tender natures and wish to help meant that they did more good together than most adults as a group. The fair haired, grey eyed girl had dreams of becoming a mother and a good wife, while Fiorentino could only hope his crimes would never see her in danger.

"Isabella?"

"Sì – her mother mentioned it this morning. They have their silver masks polished for the occasion. Are you sure you don't want to be there?"

Fiorentino glanced around the room. The usual art related clutter had his shoulders easing, the now familiar jumble of books by his favourite chair doing wonders for his nerves, and his mind cleared of the guilt long enough for him to realise what Leonardo was up to.

Leaning over his work table, the artist was deciphering yet another Codex page – something about an arma da fuoco. Fee had no idea what it was, but it was interesting enough to entice him closer, so he could peek over his father's shoulder at the complex design.

"A firearm?" he asked, fascination in his voice as Leonardo sketched it out.

"A tiny, tiny firearm; small as a humming bird."

"Ezio gave this to you?"

"The design, yes. I should have it done by the time he comes back." The artist placed the lead rod down and turned to his son; "You haven't answered my question. Do you want to come?"

Fiorentino hesitated. He wanted to be with Isabella and act like an unburdened child, but what if Ezio needed his help? He would be without his blade, without his hood, without—

"Well, I should answer for you, then. You're coming. Isabella was very upset when she heard you might not attend, and we don't want to be the reason for a crying girl, do we? Sarebbe terribile."

With that, the artist turned back to his work, effectively stopping any argument Fiorentino might have made. A grateful smile tugged at the boy's mouth as he wrapped his arms around Leonardo's waist, and muttered a small 'thank you' before he darted off to the stairs.

The artist smiled. It would be good to have Fee as a child again, without those awful secrets weighing down on him. Each life he took seemed to claim another piece of him with it; as it was, Fiorentino's eyes were still kind, but for how much longer? Leonardo dreaded the day he would be facing a stone cold killer in the guise of his boy.

"Leonardo?"

The new voice made him start. The lead rod disappeared out of his hand and clattered on the floor some way off, but by that time the artist had calmed, realising it was Ezio returning for his mask.

The assassin took it from him with a thankful smile; "Grazie. Teodora told me I could count on her girls to aid me, should I find myself in Marco's private party."

"She is a fickle woman – strange beliefs for the times – but she's good and just." Leonardo had had few dealings with Teodora herself, but whenever he needed something, or Fiorentino had been with her for camouflage lessons, she had always been charming and reliable. It was a good quality to have.

"Will Fiorentino attend?"

"Yes. He and his friend Isabella are going to have some well-earned respite."

"That's good. If I need him, he'll be at hand."

Leonardo's back stiffened, but he said nothing. The boy's skills were useless against a Doge; he was too inexperienced for such a high-profile kill. One day, in the future perhaps, but not then, and certainly not when he was supposed to be enjoying himself.

"Ezio."

The men turned to see Fee's small face peeking out from the staircase's doorway. He seemed both pleased and anxious to see his friend, but mostly anxious.

As though he was going to ask something, the boy just said; "I'll have my blade with me. Should you need my help…"

The offer was left in the air as he vanished back into the shadowed staircase.


	27. Prancing Jester Drenched in Blood

"Fiorentino!"

A small cry sounded across the well-lit clearing as a fair haired girl ran at Fee, her jade dress clutched between two slightly plump hands. She lunged at the boy and hugged him as though he were about to disappear. It was through reflex that he managed to keep the bulk of his blade away from her, fearful that she might ask what he was hiding under the sleeve of his shirt.

"I hoped you'd come!"

"Isabella!"

He hugged back, watched by her mother and Leonardo. The older pair greeted each other with warm smiles and traded conspiratorial looks, but said nothing of the affection between their children, believing it would make itself apparent in time.

The stands were erect and decorated with beautiful flowers, ribbons and brightly coloured shrouds. Equipment for the games were in place – start and finish lines, the handkerchiefs the women would give to their favoured man – and the canals were lit up by what seemed like a million candles, stretching back to reveal distant late arrivals in their gondolas, silver masks glinting off the soft glow.

"Bello," Fiorentino breathed as he stared at all the preparations. His hand was clutched in Isabella's while they walked, their masks with their parents who hung at the edge of the clearing, and both of them were spell-bound by the majestic Carnevale. It had seemed to Fee ordinary in the sun, but when the moon came out with its ethereal hue, and the stars twinkled down as flurries in the sky, and Isabella in her jade dress smiled and giggled at the prancing jesters wearing assortments of clumsy, outrageous costumes, there was nothing ordinary about it at all.

"I love Carnevale," the girl sighed, "It's one of the only times everyone comes together. Are you going to play in the games, Fee?"

_Ezio will, _he thought.

"No. All the adults will, though."

"Does that mean we get to see Maestro flirting with women?"

"I hope not. Sarebbe imbarazzante."

As the night went on, more and more people arrived. It was wonderful to see them all in polished masks and beautiful outfits; some of the women were in the most radiant gowns, and Fiorentino wondered a few times if they were imported or homemade. His thoughts were always scattered, though, when he was dragged to another stand by excited Isabella, or when they managed to see some of the games being won by Ezio as people flagged behind him.

Fee cheered at the races, hissed at his mentor's enemy during the fist fights, watched in silent awe as he scaled the buildings to capture a single red flag, and he booed when the Golden Mask with given to Dante; a fix, but in the ecstasy of colours and sounds and Isabella's gentle laughter, he found it difficult to care.

Leonardo had kept an eye on his son all night, though he found the time to relax as well. Charming ladies and men came to speak with him, either praising his work or simply talking as the dancers and performers glided between them, the bonfire's light becoming even stronger as the air chilled and the sky darkened. It was when he was sitting on a bench near one of the low-level walls with a budding young artist that he realised Fee was nowhere to be seen.

_Off with Isabella, no doubt_, he thought with a smile, not entirely focused on what his companion was saying, _I should let him be. Whatever happens tonight, he needs to rest._

Leonardo's hunch was correct.

Fiorentino and Isabella, having grown bored with the noise and bustling crowds, had escaped to a small section of the canals they called their secret hideaway; a notch in one of the walls, just big enough for them to sit and let their feet dangle above the water, with still enough cover behind to keep them hidden.

"Carnevale is so loud," he laughed, despite the fact they were far away and could only hear faint lulls of it; "The jesters were the loudest I've ever heard!"

"Mother once said there was a jester so loud at Carnevale, he almost knocked the people over."

"Davvero? I don't believe it."

Isabella said nothing, only smiled at the strange, kind boy beside her. She had grown so used to his company that there was almost nothing they wouldn't say to one another – they were the best of friends, and she loved him dearly, like a brother.

Her grey eyes looked back down at the gentle silver water passing by them, noiseless in comparison to the Carnevale. Lone gondolas were left abandoned in favour of the event. Soon enough, the sky would be filled with beautiful emeralds, rubies and sapphires, and the whole world would be alive with the blasting of joyous celebration.

Fiorentino's hand was on top of hers. Their eyes rose at the first bang, and the whole sky erupted into what seemed like distant volcanoes of bright colours.

The pair were silent as bangs and whizzes dominated the air. They just watched in awe, enjoying each other's company, dangling their feet in the water until the last of the explosions had subsided, and they were left in an unnerving quiet.

"Fee?"

He turned his head. A pair of soft lips fluttered on his cheek, and he blushed a deep scarlet as Isabella gave him her soft, warm smile.

"I'm glad you came to Carnevale."

Just as they became lost in a sweet but heavy silence once more, something distant caught Fiorentino's ears. The celebrations, no doubt. But this was different. Higher, a woman's voice, imbued with horror that he could scarcely describe.

A scream.

"The Doge has been murdered!" there were people flooding into the empty street behind them, the clinking of metal apparent as guards trotted out of their respective hideaways and began to head towards the party; "The Doge is dead! Assassino! Assassino!"

Fiorentino was shocked. He had thought Ezio hadn't managed to get into the party, and Marco's death would be on another day. How had he killed him? Was it that gun Leonardo had designed – the arma da fuoco? The hummingbird sized one?

"Murder?!" Isabella gasped beside him; "No! Not the Doge! How could anyone murder the Doge?!"

_If only you knew!_

The people were going back to their houses, weeping, in fear for their own lives as once more Ezio escaped conviction; "I have to go, Isa. I have to check Maestro is alright."

"No! It's too dangerous! Maestro Da Vinci will be alright; he and Mother-"

"If I could tell you how dangerous the Doge's allies are, I would! I have to go!"

Isabella, shocked by the sheer determination in her usually shy friend's eyes, nodded, and then found her own will again. Her hand clutched his forearm as he stood to jump over the wall, blazing with the fire of doing good.

"Then I'm coming too."

There was no room for argument. Too much time had been wasted. With a grimace and a nod of acquiescence, Fee pulled his friend up to stand with him, and they jumped over the wall to tear through the streets. They passed few people, those that were left being hysterical party goers or confused guards, but before they could round the corner to Carnevale – before Fee could see the dark forms in the shadows – a hand came out, and there were accusing bright eyes staring down at him; five pairs set in angry faces.

"Da Vinci's boy," said the one holding the scruff of Fiorentino's shirt, which pulled up in such a way that it threatened to reveal his blade underneath; "My cousin in Firenze said Da Vinci's been known to consort with the State's enemies."

Isabella watched in horror on the side of the path. She had no idea what to do as the big men began to crowd around her friend. She was only a little girl, without so much as a rock to throw, or a skipping rope to tie around their ankles and pull.

"What should we do with him?"

"Use him as a negotiation tool. If Da Vinci knows anything about the assassino, he'll have to tell us to get his son back."

"He's a bastardo, this boy. Better to kill him. If Maestro Da Vinci misses him, well, that's hardly our problem."

"One less bastardo."

"Come, then. Leave the girl. We'll drown him."

"We can't leave the girl. She will just go and tell someone. If we kill him, we have to kill her too."

As though the words were an activation code, Fiorentino struggled in the guard's grip, and the surprised man dropped him. The second Fee hit the ground, he was ready.

"Fee!" he heard Isabella cry as two guards left the cluster, walking towards her with malicious glints in their eyes. "Help!"

The boy darted forward, his hidden blade unsheathing, and cut the thin skin of the first guard's neck just deep enough for a torrent of blood to pour out. The second had no chance. He was too shocked by what had just happened to notice Fee turning on him, and soon he was lying in a pool of his own blood. Tears pricked the child's eyes as he killed the next of their attackers. His technique was unrefined, clumsy to a point, but his muscles worked in perfect tandem, and he realised that the more he was forced to train and go on assignments, the more in tune he became with an assassin's way of life – not that he liked any of it.

Isabella's face was the picture of horror as her friend came round on her assailants. They were soon lying around her with deep wounds in their chests; several stabs marks, blood pouring through the unarmoured clothes and staining the streets. Fiorentino stood above them with his legs slightly apart, his breath heavy and laboured, as his blade glinted in the moon. He was drenched in his victim's blood, which stained his white shirt and brown trousers, and pooled around his shoes as it continued to flow onto the ground.

He looked up at her. There was a dull sadness in his eyes, masked by the adrenaline and anger of his actions.

"Run."

"What?" she asked, confused and terrified.

Fee's words were louder this time; "Run, Isa. Go home. I have to go on."

"Fee-"

"Go!"

He left her no choice. In a moment, her murdering friend had disappeared, and she was left standing in the streets that were now stained by blood. She looked up in time to see him scaling the side of a building, but the moment he reached the rooftop and darted towards Carnevale, he was gone.

Fiorentino felt his heart constricting as he realised he could never talk with his friend again. It was his first taste of truly losing someone; the first time he would remember her, unlike when they had left Florence and all those that lived within. But his life was pulling him in another direction. He was a victim, as Leonardo had said, of circumstance, and would walk a path not meant for people with his gentle nature, not meant for people who wished only to speak and use their voice.

"Fee? Fee?" he could hear Leonardo's voice calling, the streets now empty of terrified screams; "Fee? Where are you, il mio garzone? Come out; let me know you're safe!"

Fiorentino saw his father wandering the dark roads in search of him. The boy jumped down from where he was running, nervous that the absence of guards meant that they had all taken to hiding, and that the only safe place for him was in his warm, comfortable workshop.

The artist's shoulders eased when he caught sight of him; "Fee, there you are! I was terrified something had happened to you!" His arms enveloped the boy in a tight hug, and he chose not to question the blood staining his clothes. No doubt he had been trapped by some abusive guards, or had come across those who wished to take advantage of everyone's confused state.

"Maestro…" there was a tremor in Fiorentino's voice as his arms clasped around Leonardo's neck; "Isabella saw. She knows."

Despite his surprise, the artist forced himself to be calm; "She knows you're an assassin?"

"She knows I'm a murderer."

There was silence. Leonardo eased Fee's arms away enough so he could look into his eyes, and the unbearable sadness he saw there was traced by resignation, acceptance of his fate.

"We should go home," the boy sighed; "It's too dangerous out here. Some guards tried to kill me. They thought you knew about Ezio."

"But they have no proof."

"These men need none. Maestro, let us go. Please."

The Carnevale was left in ruin. Fiorentino walked beside his father in the cold darkness of night, no longer entertained by prancing jesters, for his eyelids were burnt with the image of his friend's horrified eyes, watching him.


	28. By Rightful Birth

At ten years old, full of remorse and bitter hatred for his deeds, Fiorentino had the chance to meet the woman who started it all.

The boy had grown into a fine young child. Leonardo could tell he would be handsome; his eyes were warm despite the torment in them, his nature outside of work like that of an obedient deer, and through his shyness he had become intelligent, more aware of what went on around him, which was a useful trait considering. In time, if he was able to forgive himself for his actions, perhaps Leonardo would have through him a daughter-in-law. There would be more than one girl intrigued by his introverted nature. More so by the way he carried himself. He had an air of knowledge about him that enticed grown adults to try and draw him out.

"Fee," the artist had said to him that bright Venetian morning, sometime after breakfast. He was huddled in his favourite chair, pouring over another book, and with the faintest irritation at being disturbed he looked up. "I've seemed to run out of blue paint. Could you fetch me some at the market?"

"I won't be long."

That he would not. As Fiorentino disappeared out the door, a satchel hung over his shoulder and a grim expression on his face, Leonardo turned back to what he had been doing. A commission for a nobleman; he forgot who. Names seemed to fall out of his head easily – he had received payment and orders by letter, so even the face was unknown to him.

A beautiful image of the canals lay before him, unfinished and in need of more detail, but taking shape with each caress of the brush. On one of the low-level walls sat a woman, her face hidden by a cascade of long auburn hair, who looked out at the water as though contemplating something.

_I should have hired a model, _he thought as he sketched out some more unruly locks, these ones to brush against her long elegant neck and try to fly with a fictitious breeze. He had chosen not to use models for a while, sufficing with statuettes or memory. It was for Fee's sake. He wanted the cool, dim workshop to be a safe haven for him, and felt that anyone aside from their assistants would be negative in the general atmosphere.

A gentle knock sounded at the door. Pulled from his reverie, Leonardo wondered for a moment why Fee hadn't just walked in, calling out for him to enter with a puzzled frown on his face. When the door opened to reveal a woman standing there, his habit caused him to smile.

"Buongiorno, Madonna. How may I help you?" he asked.

She stood at about five foot seven, with an elegant jade gown that was outlined gold lacing, the sleeves expanding at the ends so when she put them together, her hands were concealed. Her pale skin seemed paler against her ebony hair, but her eyes were what caught him most. Green, sparkling emerald, they peered at first the cluttered workshop and then him, as though appraising what she saw before she spoke.

There was no condescension in her gaze, he noticed. Where some might think his workplace untidy and a sign of laziness, she was one of the many who thought it was an indication to his genius mind, a testament to his dedication and skill in art.

"Yes," her voice was like smooth silk; "I'm looking for someone. Someone important."

"I'm afraid I'm the only one here at the moment, Signora. Who is it you're looking for?"

"His name is lost to me now. I will know him when I see him."

Leonardo's face grew slowly more confused, until confusion was the only thing there. Who was this woman? Beautiful though she was, he was tempted to call her insane – unhinged, at best. Just as he moved to the door to check that there was no one with her, such as a husband or concerned friend, a little figure appeared beside hers, and respectfully squeezed past with a faint furrow of the brow.

Fiorentino had returned with the paint, his father's change in his balled up hand as he approached the artist. His eyes spoke volumes that never passed his lips.

"Fee," Leonardo said, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder; "This lady says she's looking for someone. Have you seen a boy running around lately? Someone who looked lost?"

"Non oggi. Perhaps yesterday?" he turned to face the woman with a soft but guarded smile. His cheeks were flushed with scarlet, but it wasn't noticeable in the slightly dimmed surroundings. "May I ask what he looked like, Madonna?"

It was then that they noticed the woman had grown still, as if their conversation had turned her into a statue. Her eyes stared down at Fee so intensely that he thought he would become a puddle on the stone floor; it almost burned.

"Madonna?" Leonardo moved to stand in front of his boy. It was ridiculous, he knew, for Fiorentino could hold his own in a fight, but his instincts were to protect should anything come to harm him.

The voice seemed to make her come to her senses. A smile spread across her face, tight and void of warmth, which made Fee feel uneasy as he pressed against Leonardo's side.

"I had hoped he would be alright."

"Pardon?"

"The boy," she waved her hand at him; "I thought for sure he would be handed over to the guards, and they would do their worst with him. But you heeded my note. You're a good man, Maestro Da Vinci."

Fiorentino forgot his shyness and polite attitude for a moment to blurt out; "What are you talking about?"

Beside him, his father had gone rigid. His hands grew clammy enough for Fee to look up, confused, and he saw an unmistakable expression of terror flood through his face, soon to be replaced by strong dislike.

"I thought he would do better with a stable environment," the artist said, voice laced with condemnation; "Should he have been given to the guards, they would never have let him live. He deserved better."

Fiorentino was confused. But Leonardo was not. He knew the woman now – the woman he had searched for all those months, who had slipped through the net and vanished, only to return ten years later. What was her reason? Why did she come to shatter the precarious peace he had tried to keep intact?

"And I thank you for your sacrifice, Maestro."

"Hardly a sacrifice. More a unique, sacred pleasure. A pleasure you missed out on."

"My situation was dire. My lover at the time wasn't my husband, and when I gave birth to him," she gestured at Fiorentino, whose face quickly changed to pure horror, "I knew I could never let his father or the public know. Now, I've come to bring him back."

The boy surged forward, and Leonardo was too slow to grab him and snatch him back. Kind eyes were filled with anger, a barely supressed fury that seeped through in his voice.

"You're my mother!"

She smiled at him; "I am. And you, my boy, are coming home, where you belong. Thank Maestro for looking after you and we'll be off."

The air was still. Fiorentino looked up at this woman – his _mother_ – and felt a sort of anger burning in his soul, but too strong, more than he could repress. He cared not that she had abandoned him. Leonardo was a kind man, a good man, and he loved him as though he was the artist's flesh and bone. All he cared about was the fact she thought she had the right to come and take him away. After all he had done. After all he had seen. She thought she could arrive on their doorstep and all would be well.

"Fee," Leonardo's voice was soft and nervous; "You don't want to go with her, do you?" He would never be the same if Fiorentino chose to leave, but he felt he had to ask. He cared more for his son's happiness than he did his own, and if Fee wanted to escape – perhaps to get away from the assassins – he would let him.

The boy was silent for a while. His father wondered if his brain had imploded with the shocking revelation. But then he suddenly leapt forward and had the woman pressed against the nearest table, pushing her head down until her one of her temples rested on the wood.

"Come ti permetti!" he shouted; "I hate you!"

"Fee, stop!" Leonardo rushed forward and pulled his son back, surprised that he went easily. The boy leaned into his arms as though he needed the support, and he was more than happy to give it to him, thankful for the weight that he had felt growing for ten years.

But over the artist's shoulder, something caught his eye. Without warning he ran from his father's arms and was at his chair, where his blade was lying, and quickly strapped it to his wrist before he was back at his mother's throat.

Leonardo could only stare, horrified.

The rage was starting to consume Fee as he growled; "Who is my father?"

The woman gulped under the blade's sharp edge; "I…I can't…"

"Who is my father?!"

Punctuated by cool metal pressing closer to her throat, Fiorentino's mother could feel her heart stuttering. Her dark secret, embodied by this little boy, whose eyes before had been so inviting but now were consumed by rage, needed to be revealed if she wished to save her life.

"His name was Frederico!"

There was a moment of calm. Fiorentino retracted his blade, and stepped back to allow his mother's explanation.

She clutched at her neck. It would be bruised the next morning, she mused, and she would have to find an excuse for her meticulous husband.

"Frederico?" Leonardo's heart stuttered; "Frederico…Auditore?"

She nodded; "The same."

"Ezio's brother…"

"He visited me some days before his imprisonment. Old lovers, older friends. When he was executed, I mourned him, and found soon that my clothes no longer fit. My stomach grew, but I was always nauseous and never ate. Soon enough, a dottore confirmed it. I was pregnant. And the only one who could have been the father was Frederico."

Leonardo found himself sitting down. His head was spinning, and yet he was vaguely aware of Fiorentino stepping back, realising the link between himself and Ezio, his fate no matter what the circumstances of his upbringing.

The mother, however, took their silence as an opportunity to tell of her sins.

"I feared that we would both be persecuted – one, for his being a bastardo, and two for his being an Auditore by right. My only option was to give him away. I knew how close you were with the family, and that you were young and unattached, so I thought…"

"You gave him to me in the hopes I would accept him," Leonardo finished for her, "and not turn him over to the guards."

The artist reached out for his son. Fiorentino gravitated towards him, his face pale, and sat on his lap with a grimace.

"The Auditore family were a wanted people. Some say they were murderers. I couldn't let them…I couldn't allow them to kill my son."

The boy's hand shot up; "Not your son, Madonna. Never your son."

"But-"

"What would you have called me?" he asked, looking up at her; "Had you never given me away? What would you name your son?"

Leonardo's hand gripped Fiorentino's little wrist, but he could not deter his son's concentration. The boy was too absorbed in this woman, so long absent from his life, returning so late after his indoctrination and misdeeds.

"Benvolio."

"Benvolio…affectionate."

More silence. And then a soft, quiet laughter, just loud enough to send shivers down the woman's spine.

"I think you should go, Madonna."

She looked first at her son and then Leonardo, who gestured towards the door with a serious look of disapproval. He could feel his son's anger pouring out of him, only to seep into the air and make it tense.

"I wanted only to save you, Fiorentino."

"And you did," his head rested on Leonardo's shoulder; "I have a family. A father. I have no need for you. So go. Make yourself happy; I know that's what you wanted all along."

Reluctantly, the woman turned and walked out of the workshop, into the bright Venetian streets outside. Her figure was lost to the crowd. The door swung closed, and the noise that momentarily increased dissipated again.

Leonardo clutched his son so tight he thought he was hurting him, but Fee made no complaint. The boy seemed to have lost all will to speak. The satchel with his father's blue paint was to the side of them, having been discarded on the floor, and neither of them could get back to normality and work with it.

"Federico Auditore. I'm Ezio's nephew."

Leonardo nodded.

"I was born an assassino."

"You were born a little boy. You're still a little boy. Il mio garzone dolce."

"But I kill-"

"We've had this conversation before, haven't we? And I seem to recall saying to you no matter who comes into our lives, you will always be my son. Always. Unless, of course, you want to be an Auditore. I'm sure Mario would welcome you with open arms."

The artist's heart hurt just to think about it. But what kind of man would he be not to make the option known? He cared about his son, the baby he'd raised, and he wouldn't disadvantage him for selfish reasons.

Fiorentino wasted no time in answering; "No, Maestro. Auditore by birth and destiny, but Da Vinci in life."

Leonardo smiled as he pressed his son closer to him. He would have to tell Ezio, of course; the man deserved to know he had at least one piece of Federico left. But, for the moment, he would relish in the fact his mother had known him, and his brief closeness with Maria Auditore meant he had received one of the finest gifts in the known universe.

"I love you, Daddy." Fiorentino said, and the endearment threatened Leonardo's tears.

"I love you too, Fee. My Fiorentino Da Vinci."


	29. The Greatest Friend

Fee spent that night in his room, looking out through the window to the twinkling stars above. So lost was he that he forgot time, his training the next morning, and he was content to just sit on his little bed beneath the large paned window, thinking about the father he had never known.

By the time the cold light of dawn washed the shadows away, Fiorentino had decided he was glad his mother had revealed the truth. It was a testament of how loyal he was to Leonardo. No longer was he a bastardo, or an Auditore, or an unwanted child of some courtesan – he was a Da Vinci, and an assassino despite his hatred of it.

Frederico, God rest his soul, was not a face Fiorentino knew.

Leonardo was downstairs early that morning, having not slept all night in case his son called for him. The artist was pouring over his work, so nearly finished, when there was a knock at his door, and weak sunlight appeared and disappeared as someone entered the dim, cool workshop.

"Leonardo!" came a familiar greeting; so familiar, in fact, that the artist's heart stuttered when he heard it; "I hope I haven't come at a bad time. I found another Codex page."

"Ezio – no, not at all. You're just the man I wanted to see."

"Truly? Why?" the assassin moved so he was in his friend's eyesight. So far, Leonardo had not looked at him, instead preferring to keep himself trained of the beautiful, unfinished painting before him. Ezio thought he caught sight of a familiar face, but the woman's hair was in the way and so he couldn't be sure.

"I…Fee and I came upon some news yesterday. It was quite the shock."

"Something to do with the assassins?"

"I wish it were that simple." Leonardo placed his supplies to one side; he needed to focus, and he doubted his twitching hands would resist the urge to paint. "No. A woman came to the workshop yesterday. She…well, what she said revealed some truths, and caused much distress. I thought you should know about it."

Ezio took the seat beside his friend. It was sturdier, he noted, and in the back of his mind he thought that was where Fee must have had his lessons. The boy was a talented writer. An accomplished reader, too. The assassin only hoped it would give him an outlet in life, before his deeds and duties consumed him.

"What is it, il mio amico?"

"Well-"

Before the artist could take the plunge, they heard the door to the staircase creaking open.

Both heads turned and saw Fiorentino walking out from the darkness, donning a pure white hood with one hand as the other worked with a blood red belt. His eyes were in shadow, but Leonardo mused he saw dark crescent moons under them, telling him his son had been tormenting himself throughout the night.

"Buongiorno, Ezio," the boy said, not stopping his stride as he approached the window. When he was in uniform, he rarely ever used the door.

"Hey, Fee. Are you coming to join us?"

"No, thank you. I have things to do."

"So early in the day?" the assassin glanced up at the sunlight still pouring through the window. It did nothing to penetrate the darkened corners, and Leonardo even kept a candle lit so he could properly see what he was doing, placed beside him on a brass candle holder.

Fee shrugged as he propped open the window above the kitchen counter; "Time waits for no man. Fate binds us. I have to go."

With that, the boy jumped on the counter and disappeared out the window, into a morning so bitter with frost that he almost regretted leaving.

"Is there something wrong?" Ezio asked after a few moments of silence. "Why was he so upset?"

The window was left ajar, too, which was unlike Fee, but Leonardo let that little detail slip his friend's notice. His son would come back to them in time; it was a case of getting over the shock, and if that meant he had to take a few days to himself, then so be it.

"Ezio…there's something you should know about Fee."

The assassin turned and was met by serious, bright blue eyes, so void of Leonardo's usual mirth that he found himself only able to nod. He was unused to this side of his friend. Perhaps it was a side that made even him uncomfortable?

"The woman who came to us yesterday – she claimed to be his mother."

"His mother?!" the assassin gaped; "And what did she want?"

Leonardo waved his hand; "She thought the son she abandoned would go with her willingly. Pretty, but a fool. That's not what this is about, though."

"There's more?" Ezio's mind reeled for his friend, who had no doubt been rocked by the news. He looked to be calm despite it all, with a steady gaze and steadier hands, and for a moment Ezio wondered if Leonardo's parenthood had made him more practical; a feat not easily accomplished, considering he was known for eccentricity.

"Much more. You should brace yourself – this may come as a shock."

So Leonardo told the story. He took care to omit Fee's violent outburst towards his mother, the threat to cut her throat, but everything else, from the shocking revelation to the end of the night, was said. Ezio watched in an unreadable silence as his friend went on, and after he was finished, the artist felt hot under his gaze.

A pregnant silence filled the room. For a moment, Leonardo thought his friend was going to erupt. Surely, the younger Ezio might have. But when he dared to look up at the man beside him, who he had helped and supported throughout his quest for vengeance, he saw that his face was lifted by a soft smile.

"Just when I thought you could not be a greater friend…"

"What?"

Ezio placed a heavy, jovial hand on Leonardo's shoulder, the smile becoming so wide it seemed to brighten the entire room; "I thought I was indebted to you only through the pages and your allegiance, but no. You raised my own flesh and blood without even knowing it, and endeavoured to give him the childhood you thought he deserved. You are truly the greatest friend an Auditore ever had."

The artist was stunned into silence. He had expected some anger, no matter how irrational, or at least a sense of mourning for the time lost with his nephew. But Ezio seemed to be content. He was happy, even, that Fiorentino had been given to someone so kind and willing, someone who had sacrificed much so he could raise him to the best of his abilities.

"This woman – the puttana – she gave him up in fear of her own life."

"She claimed otherwise."

"We all know what goes through people's heads. She cared little for my nephew. You took him in when it seemed the whole world wanted him dead. Leonardo…" the assassin shook his head, a sad, soft laugh escaping his lips; "Leonardo, I'm so glad that we met."

Further, in the city streets, Fiorentino kept his mind busy, training with Rosa and her own mentor Antonio. Out of the corner of his eye, he swore he kept seeing a pair of grey eyes watching him, a shock of blonde hair, but whenever he turned to look there was no one there.

"Dannazione, Fee; pay attention!" Rosa huffed from the shadows; "You will get yourself hurt if you don't."

But over Fee, there was a cold, dark cloud. It could be felt whenever he looked up or into someone's eyes. He kept his head low, hidden beneath the hood, so as not to alert the passing citizens of his place in their world.

More would come to torment him soon. This, he was fully aware. His only hope was that he would stay with Leonardo – the only person that had stayed in his life.


	30. Machiavellian Tactics

He had thought of the markings on a rainy day.

Leonardo and Fee were busy making the most of the weather, with a roaring fire and their favourite hobbies – painting and reading – when the artist had just so happened to remember strange lines that ran along the Codex pages, and found his mind wandering to what they meant.

Some days later, it dawned on him that it had been a prophecy. The way he had leapt up and scattered his paints across the room pulled Fiorentino from his reading, and the boy merely furrowed his brow when his father babbled about his discovery. The open book in his hands, Fee nodded, allowing Leonardo to go about his work without interruption.

When the artist and Ezio met again outside of the Basilica di San Marco, he was pleased to temper the bad news of a returning Templar ship with his findings, and once more Ezio praised him for his continued friendship.

It was later in the year that Ezio, Mario and Niccolò Machiavelli turned up at the workshop, bearing with them a strange spherical object that they called the 'Apple of Eden.' Leonardo was glad to have cleaned up the clutter in recent times; the shelves were loaded with books and designs, the paintings he had yet to finish placed high on scaffolding-like constructions, and the floor swept until not a speck of dirt was left on it.

"Fascinating." The artist drawled as he admired the Apple, so beautifully designed with a strange, swirling pattern. He was mesmerised by the quality and the advanced materials. It was ancient, yes, but it was further than their modest civilisation would ever go.

"What does it do, Leonardo?"

"I could no more explain that to you than I can why the Earth goes around the sun."

"You mean, the sun around the Earth?"

Leonardo gestured to his son, who left where he was standing at the edge of the carpet and approached the object with caution. Mario's hand fell on the boy's shoulder as if to calm him – he felt an affinity with him now, since his Auditore heritage was revealed.

"Look at this, Fee," the artist brought him close, hugging his waist from behind; "It's beautiful, no? It's so much more advanced than anything I've seen. A truly marvellous artefact."

Mario jumped in; "The Codex refers to it as a Piece of Eden."

"The Spaniard – he called it 'the Apple.'"

"Eve's Apple? Of Forbidden Knowledge?" Fiorentino's eyes went wide as he spoke. He had been given a Bible to read for future reference, but he never thought for a moment…

"Ezio, could this thing…?"

Leonardo stood, letting go of his son so he could step backwards, but had to tug the boy until he joined him. They watched as the assassin moved forward and touched the Apple…and then were thrown into a great shroud of golden writings.

Mario and Niccolò fell to the floor, clutching their heads as a wave of pain crashed over them. Fiorentino, though feeling his skull tighten, managed to stay on his feet, and was able to watch as his father marvelled at the codes before Ezio gained some sense and touched the Apple again.

The writing disappeared. Niccolò and Mario rose to their feet, both embarrassed for their sudden fall, as Fee rushed over to stand beside Leonardo. The artist calmed him with a hand on his black hair, the fingers against his scalp familiar and warm.

"This must never fall into the wrong hands," he was saying to Ezio; "It would drive weaker minds insane."

"That you are correct. No doubt Rodrigo will desire to have this back. But what should we do with it?"

"You should take it to Forli," Mario, having regained his nerves, suggested; "Our ally, Caterina Sforza – she will keep it safe."

"Caterina Sforza? I think I will enjoy this mission," Ezio gave them a warm grin, and it made Leonardo smile too. So long had his friend worn an expression of grave seriousness, it made a refreshing change to see him looking forward to something. "Leonardo; thank you, my oldest friend."

The pair hugged, and the people watching were uplifted by their friendship. No matter what went on in life, who they faced, there was at least one person they could depend on for their continued support.

"Leonardo! Ezio tells me you travel often to Milano. I have a grand villa in Toscana. You must come visit me there." Mario offered, clapping his hand on the artist's shoulder, to which Leonardo bowed his head in acceptance. The ageing warrior looked down at his great-nephew with a smile. "And you as well, Fiorentino. No doubt you wish to know more about your heritage."

"Fiorentino Da Vinci," the boy muttered under his breath. He intended for no one to hear him, and no one did, for Mario had turned to his nephew with a smile on his face.

"Ezio – go to Forli. Speak with Caterina, and she will help us. Of that I have no doubt."

"Something of such craftsmanship…it's a sad time when mankind is so concerned with its own power, it fails to appreciate what is beyond our comprehension."

Leonardo sighed as he put another hand on Fiorentino's shoulder. It was as though he was anchoring himself down to the world, reminding himself that he still had one thing to be proud of – one boy who, despite his assassin status, was kinder than most of humanity.

"Don't be sad, Maestro," Fee frowned up at him with concern in his eyes. The sight made him smile.

"How can I be, when I have you?"

The room became silent as Niccolò glanced first at Mario, and then at Ezio. Both of them fixed him with hard stares.

"Neither of you have told him?" he asked, more weariness in his voice than disbelief. The man, with a near shaven head and cold, hard grey eyes, was much younger than Ezio, and his presence as the Assassin's leader made Fee wonder how old he truly was. He was new, though, so the boy was cautious of him and chose not to ask.

"Told me what?" Leonardo looked up. Confusion flooded through his blue eyes. "Is something wrong?"

Niccolò moved forward; "I thought Ezio would have told you. Fiorentino is required for other missions. Missions in Tuscany and Firenze."

There was a moment in which everything was still. The child, momentarily confused, looked first at Niccolò, and then at Leonardo, whose face had paled.

"You mean to say…?"

"The boy is the only one of us not yet known to the Templars – at least, not in the upper ranks. His anonymity is essential for the tasks needing to be carried out."

Leonardo realised what he was saying. Around him, the two Auditore family members glared at their friend, who seemed to have no sense of remorse for sending Fiorentino so far away. To him, he was just another assassin in need of placing; a cog in a machine that needed to be fit, and left to do its job.

"Then I go with him."

"Not possible. The danger is too great for someone untrained. If you go, you die."

"I can't stand by and allow him to travel alone!" the artist's hand searched for his son's head, and found it quickly, pulling him close with a stern expression trained on Niccolò; "I'm his father! He's my son!"

"And now he's needed elsewhere. If we want to make this world a better place - a safer place - we have to think practically. There's no room for sentiment. I'm sorry Leonardo, but this is what must be done."

Fiorentino came out of his reverie and once more, forgot his shyness; "Do I not have a choice in this?!"

"No," the leader waved his hand, "As an assassino, you will listen and obey orders. Ezio can deal with the Apple; your missions are comparatively smaller."

"But Maestro and I have never been apart! Not since I was a baby!"

"Things change, Fiorentino. I'll hear no more of this." The leader strode over to the workshop door, which he opened to let the harsh sunlight pool in. His face, weathered before its time, was bathed in its fierce glow, and Fee imagined he saw Devil's horns grow in the stubble on his head. "Mario, I expect you to take him to Tuscany. I want him there tonight."

With that, the leader was gone.

They were left in stunned silence, with Fiorentino still bristling over his unfair treatment. When Leonardo staggered backwards in shock, Ezio was the one to grab him.

"Facile, Leonardo. Take a seat." He pulled a stool out from under the table, and took care to make sure his friend was properly on it before he let his hands drift away. They stayed near, though, in case the artist suddenly slumped forward and onto the floor.

"How…how can this be? How can he take my son away?"

Mario put a heavy hand on Leonardo's shoulder, which he was unaware was the only thing anchoring him down; "Niccolò is a good leader, but he often loses sight of what's important in this world. To him, there is nothing more essential than ridding our good people of Templar influence."

Fiorentino found himself rushing to his father, and he was welcomed with open arms. Leonardo pressed his head down into the boy's hair – so close was he that Fee could hear his whimpers, however soft they were, and the fingers that were clasped around the nape of his neck, another arm sliding around his waist as though he were about to disappear.

In essence, that was not far from the truth.

"But Fee is only a little boy."

Ezio found himself rubbing soothing circles into his nephew's back; "Yes, he is."

"He will be looked after, Leonardo," Mario vowed; "and you can visit him whenever you like. These missions should take no more than a few weeks. You can come to Monteriggioni at any time you desire. Our doors are always open to you."

Though it was meant to be comforting, it gave Leonardo little reassurance. His son would only be in Tuscany for a while, and then he would go on to Florence; before then, who knows where in Tuscany he would be needed?

"I must go with you."

Fiorentino, despite shivering and fighting back tears, knew what had to be done; "No, Daddy. I can go myself. I…I have to."

"You don't _have_ to do anything, il mio figlio. You are your own person. And I don't want Niccolò's war becoming yours as well."

The boy pulled his head back enough to be able to look into Leonardo's face. He saw those warm, kind eyes, and for a moment he could believe everything was okay, that nothing had changed and they would wake up the next morning as before; together.

But there was no tomorrow for togetherness, and in those eyes, Leonardo saw a brave determination.

"Ambrosi marked my fate," he reminded him gently, "and through Ambrosi, I became an assassino. Niccolò's war is now my war. The…if it means the good of the world, and that people live…I have to go."

No happiness penetrated those brown depths, but Leonardo knew he would never convince him to remain. Perhaps Fee thought he was endangering the artist?

With another tight, desperate hug, Leonardo whispered; "Please, Fee."

"I'm sorry, Daddy."

The whole world faded into the background, the men watching them included, as father and son desperately clung to each other in what seemed like Armageddon.


	31. The Road to Monteriggioni

The road to Monteriggioni was thick with mist.

Like a hearse, the wagon rumbled slowly forward, black horses in front with their heads bent low and hooves heavy. Around the cart were small mounds that marked off the path, but these had no flowers or trees, and as such the moonlight failed to penetrate the fog that lay so thick.

Mario cracked the reins as beside him sat the silent Fiorentino. They had not spoken since leaving Venice. As the grand buildings depleted to small shacks, and those into fields, not one word had passed the little boy's lips, not even to tell his great-uncle that he missed Leonardo.

Eventually, when he sensed they were close, Mario tried to connect with the child; "We should be in Monteriggioni soon. You will love it, my boy. There's so much to do – other children, too. In between missions, you should get to know them. They welcome any Auditore with open arms."

Fiorentino stared out vacantly as the man beside him described his villa, knowing there would be no point in responding. Auditore was an established name, he heard, with many noble accomplishments to be proud of, but there was no mention of their follies, and no mention of their crimes in the eyes of the law. To Mario, the law was dictated by 'shoddy Templars in big red hats,' so he had no time for it.

"Your grandmother will be pleased to meet you. She doesn't speak, but you can tell she listens. And your aunt, Claudia, will be sure to make you comfortable. She keeps things up to date in the villa; no doubt she already has your room prepared."

That caught Fiorentino's attention. His old room had been fixed with shelves for all of his books, some of which had been wrapped up and stacked inside the cart. If there was one hope he had in his new home, it was that he would have a safe place to rest his only pastime, the one leisurely activity he had in a life filled with blood.

The mist cleared enough for him to catch a glimpse of the gate. Heavy iron, operated by a simple pulley system located within the walls. The arched entrance seemed to go on forever, but Fee noticed it had a concrete top that stretched out into walkways, and the fortress-like design was perfect to employ watchmen.

"This will make you feel safe," Mario nodded with a grin; "The finest, strongest walls encircle Monteriggioni – only the best for my people. They're cared for by highly priced architects."

_Maestro could do better,_ Fee thought as he inspected the mundane design. Even the colour was bland; from what he could make out, it yellowed in patches, bleached by the sunlight, and what little moonlight caressed the great towers made them seem daunting, not comforting.

There were no people on the narrow streets, all asleep, which gave Fiorentino a better opportunity to inspect his surroundings. The tailor was closed and rundown, he noticed, left to rot beside a renovated Blacksmiths with brand new banners and modern designs peppering the window frame. An art shop was across from that, though in the mist he could see very little of it. He mused it would be in a similar if not identical state to the tailor. Monteriggioni did not strike him as a place where art was admired.

"Venire," the wagon stopped and Fee jolted in his seat. Beside him, Mario jumped down, surprisingly graceful for a man his size.

When he turned to offer a hand to his great-nephew, the boy didn't move. He looked up to glance around the ominous place, wishing he was back in the cool workshop surrounded by books, art, and the overwhelming smell of paint.

"Fiorentino, come," Mario twitched his fingers; "There's a lot to be done before you go on your first mission."

With no other choice, Fiorentino complied.

When they approached the curving steps that split across a strange, circular barrier, the mist cleared enough for him to see the assassin symbol carved into the stone. Below it was a small font of water, filled to the brim, and he wondered for a moment if they worshipped that symbol like Catholics worshipped their cross. But then Mario was tugging at his hand again and he had to move on.

"Girls?" the warrior called out through the mist. A few weak candles could be seen in the distance, and a voice, loud but welcoming, replied.

"Here, Uncle! We've just lit the fire."

"Good! These old bones struggle in cold weather."

It was true that the chill was beginning to pierce through Fee's clothes, but he realised that he hadn't shivered. Numbed by leaving his father, he had taken into account nothing but his new home, not even the cold that was now wrapping around him like a wet blanket.

As they approached the mirror, the mist seemed to melt away. Fiorentino saw it in all its glory. Having been rebuilt over the years, its windows gleamed under the soft moonlight, touched by condensation, while above a stunted watchtower overlooked the town. A balcony was also placed in the centre front – he mused that it was where the noble family might have addressed their people, had their people not been such a small, indigenous lot.

"Oh!"

He looked up to see a woman rushing up to them. She was young; if he was drawing parallels, she looked similar to Ezio, with a nearly identical nose and facial structure, but there were traces of someone else. When he glanced past her white and red dress bouncing with her steps, he saw an older woman there, quite silent, watching him with something that was close to joy. Her aged and bony hands were clasped together, as though in him she saw someone else.

_Frederico, perhaps._

"I'm glad the trip was safe," the woman smiled to Mario, then turned her attention to Fee; "Ciao là, Fee. We've heard so much about you. I'm Claudia – your aunt Claudia."

She pointed at the silent woman behind them, who so far had made no move. It seemed to him that she was sizing him up, as though wondering if he was worthy to be her son's son, and part of her family. But there was no condescension in her eyes. Whatever she was thinking, it was far from his inadequacy.

"That's your grandmother, Maria Auditore. She doesn't speak anymore, but she pays attention to what goes on around her."

_You don't seem too sure of that, Aunt Claudia, _he thought, with a touch of bitterness about him.

"Venire – we have your bed prepared. I'm sure you're very tired."


	32. Bound in Blood

Rain pelted Fee's hood as he ran across the rooftop. His legs ached and his eyes stung with tears, but still he kept going, for in the torrent came another enemy; a shower of arrows that missed him by mere inches.

"Assassino! Assassino!" shouts behind him, "Kill him! He must die!"

But no matter how near their aim, how accurate their shot, Fiorentino managed to dodge them all. His training came to his aid once more as he leapt across a large gap between the houses, where the streets below were empty and spelt death, and behind him, the voices grew fainter, until all he could really hear was the gale that whipped at his clothes. He landed heavily his hands and bent knee with a grunt, but then was off again.

"Here!"

Not knowing if the voice was friendly or not, Fee veered towards it. His blade, already soaked with blood, would serve him well if he had made the wrong decision. The thought of taking life still made his skin crawl, and yet now, in the pouring streets of his old home – of Florence, the bold and beautiful – killing became his only comrade.

The caller was friendly.

A great piece of tarp was held open long enough for the assassin to dart through, falling behind him to block out any unwanted eyes. In a small shelter made of clothes and forgotten wood, Fiorentino found himself amongst his people; thieves and vagabonds, huddled around a fire just big enough to warm the tent, as they stared up at him with their quiet eyes.

Sodden, Fee nodded at them. It was the leader he was most concerned with. The man was sitting on a pile of torn sheets like some Lord of the Beggars, back ramrod straight, but he perceived the newcomer in their midst with a smile. Followers of the assassin cause, he decided, when he caught sight of the symbol propped up against one of the support beams.

"Ah!" the leader welcomed, clapping his thin hands together as his smile twitched in glee; "The one who's been causing such a ruckus with the guards! Bravo, my friend, bravo!"

The clicks of several joints did not escape Fee's notice as the man stood up. He was young; too young to have such stiff limbs, or to be troubled by the bitter chill outside. In the eight thieves that clustered around the fire, the one who let him in having joined them, he seemed to be the best age to take the 'throne.'

Three were elders who wore ancient torn clothes, and two were young children huddled together under a blanket. Their big, almost luminous eyes looked up at him in awe. If only they knew what burdens he had to bear. The rest were of an age where they could at least fend for themselves.

"Grazie," he muttered as the leader clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Think nothing of it, my friend. Your actions have helped us more than you know. What with the guards being so busy with you, my group and I never go hungry, nor the people we serve."

"Your group seems small," he nodded towards the knot around the fire. Feeding them should have been no hard task.

"There are more of us. It's best not to stay together all of the time. Makes it harder for the guards to track, persecute, kill - you understand."

"That I do."

The children caught Fee's attention more so than the adults, and his heart went out to them. Their situation could easily have been his situation had Leonardo not intervened. Though he hated killing and skulking in the shadows, the boy still thanked his father for what precious little childhood he had; so much so that his heart ached just to think about the artist he hadn't seen in a year.

"Sit with us, please," a lady with grey hair raised a tin mug towards him, "Have a drink to warm yourself. We haven't much in the way of food, but what we can-"

"I'll not take food from a people who need it so much more," he put his hand up, palm flat towards them as though the gesture would emphasise his point, "Eat, and don't worry for me."

At the same time Fiorentino was going about his work in Firenze, Leonardo was focusing all of his energy on his most recent commission. Hanging high on the wall above him was the portrait of four year old Fee, and scattered around his worktable were little mementos – leather bound books; a makeshift play pen; a pair of boy's shoes polished and primed; a basket; a blue blanket; and the overalls he had worn as a bouncing baby, spotless, for these were just a few of the things his son had left behind, and served Leonardo as reminders that the boy still lived.

It had been a year since Fee had left. What little word he received of him was a blessing, though it did nothing to soothe his worry. The shop, so full of life, had grown not cold in his absence, but had lost something – something subtle that Leonardo couldn't place.

They had seen each other since their parting, on quick visits that often lasted no more than a day. His son had grown. He looked older than his twelve years, his voice having deepened before its time, but his eyes? His eyes remained the same. Tormented and weary, but losing none of their kindness, that piece of Fee still untouched by the horrors of life. Leonardo mused that his kindness was the only reason he kept going, even when it caused him such pain to do so.

_Merda,_ he thought, habit causing him not to swear out loud as paint dripped from the brush and onto his shoe. His thoughts had been so distracted that he hadn't been paying attention to where the damn thing was.

The painting in front of him, of a beautiful young girl that was to be sent to her suitor, was nearly finished. A few more flecks of blue to the eyes and another coat of brown hair, and she would be ready.

_My assistants will be back any moment now. I should take a break._

Fiorentino bowed to the leader – Carlo, last name unneeded – and thanked him for his hospitality. It seemed only right to leave them, else they would have been in great danger should they be discovered. He would find refuge in another place, far from people who stood the risk of being hurt.

"Fight well, friend."

"La vostra fedeltà è gentile."

Leonardo opened the letter he had been given that morning. He hadn't had a chance to read it, not when he had so much work to do, but his break was the perfect opportunity.

_Maestro; may this letter reach you in good health. I write to you to ask that you do your service to the guild and train an apprentice, for no other will take him. Gian shows promise, but he lacks respect, discipline. I hope that you can train him to be a productive member._

_His affairs here should take no more than a year, and then he will be journeying to your workshop. Buona fortuna, il mio amico. You will need it._

The painter read the letter twice to be certain of what he just read, before sighing. An apprentice in the workshop may have been welcoming, had he the knowledge that Fee would be returned and comfortable by then, or that he would at least have regular contact with his son. Another young boy to be wandering the shop's floor would be alien to Fee, perhaps even unwelcome. Then again, it could have been a blessing. Leonardo could never be sure after so much time apart.

Either way, he had no choice. Gian – this apparent problem child – would be in his workshop within the next year. The guild's members had decided that Leonardo was to be the boy's keeper.

With a sigh, he acquiesced.

Little did he know the repercussions of Gian's arrival.


	33. The Lines of Love

Two years passed.

In two years, Fiorentino and Leonardo had seen only glimpses of each other. The painter watched from afar as his son grew, shoulders broadening and voice deeper still, and felt his heart break that he was so tormented by his deeds.

His letters were often short. On occasion, he would send them with a return address, which Leonardo would write to with an eagerness that almost consumed him. It was one of his only chances to connect with the child he still thought about every day.

Fiorentino's duties had him in Florence and Tuscany, and sometimes even further; Forli, Rome. One of his letters had said that he was in Romagna for a time, going into detail the pallid faces that still ambled the poverty-stricken land, the sight of starving children too much for him to bear. That was one of the few that had a return address on them. Leonardo had been careful to remind Fee that his anguish for those around him made him a good man, but whether or not that had helped his tormented son was unknown to him.

Gian arrived six months after the letter announcing his new apprenticeship, and had proved to be a devil. Stealing money that was meant to buy clothes, harassing other apprentices in other trades, causing mischief wherever he went; he was so different to Fee that no parallel could be drawn, and yet Leonardo refused to give up on him. He had promised himself, in his failure to keep his own son on the path of good, he would at least help another down it.

"Maestro, you have another letter," the boy said on a bright morning, when the sunlight slanted through the windows and set the floor aglow. The fireplace still had ashes in the bottom since the night was so bitterly cold, but in the warmth of morning, Leonardo could hardly remember the chill.

"Davvero? Eccellente!" he took the letter from his apprentice's hands. A smile had erupted on his face, and for a moment he seemed to relish in the familiar, curly handwriting that read 'MAESTRO DA VINCI.'

"Who is it?" Gian sat on the stool beside him, interest sparking in his small brown eyes. He was very young – ten years old, but showing great potential. His shoulder length hair fell flat against his head, his nose upturned slightly at the tip, and he was so thin that he could fit into ladies' outfits, let alone the small, narrow shirts designed for children. Despite this, he had a litheness about him. When in trouble or danger, Gian was a master escape artist, who could wriggle his way out of any situation if he found the need to.

"My son, Fiorentino," Leonardo almost laughed as he rushed to open the envelope; "He's been gone for a very long time now."

"Is he a scholar?" the apprentice was disappointed. He longed for something interesting about his mentor, something that teetered on dangerous. The life of an artistic novice was one of fumes and constant models, sat so ramrod still that they were more like statues.

"No, not a scholar."

"Then, what?"

"I can't tell you, Salaì. The repercussions could be dire."

Gian frowned. Leonardo had never withheld information from him, even when it meant the revelation of something personal, and to do so now was out of character. What was so special about Fiorentino that it demanded secrecy? Why were the letters always tucked away in that special box in the painter's room, patterned with cherubs and flowers? For a moment, Gian damned his illiteracy, for he was certain those letters held the answer.

"Would it not be better to talk about him?" the apprentice asked, his expression as innocent as his wily intentions would allow. He leaned back on the stool to convey indifference, noticing the way that Leonardo's eyes scanned through the writings so curly and neat, and seemed to light up as though given the secret to eternal life.

The artist nodded, distracted as he was; "His work as an assassin is very delicate, Salaì."

An instant hush fell over the room. Leonardo stiffened as Gian's eyes dropped to the letter in his hands, which was clutched so tightly the edges creased.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just…I was rambling," the artist's lie was too quick. His apprentice narrowed his eyes before rising to his face, itself so frightened it looked as though it had just clapped eyes on Medusa.

"An assassino?"

"No! Fee is not and has never been an assassin!"

"Then why would you say it?"

"Salaì, I beg of you, stop this!"

But the more desperate Leonardo's pleas, the more certain Gian became of Fiorentino's alliance. He was soon silent, and that was more dangerous than when he was goading his mentor on.

Leonardo's shoulders slumped. The letter in his hand fell to the table, where it laid in the bright sunlight, the writing itself incriminating should it have fallen into the wrong hands. What was the use in lying? His son was far away, and Gian was a troublemaker, but he was no fool.

"He never wanted to be one. Necessity…life caught up with him. It's my fault he's in this mess."

The apprentice said nothing.

Long fingers ghosted over the letter; "He came to me as a baby. I saved him once, and I thought…I thought being an assassin could save him again."

There was silence from Gian as his mentor told him the story – from Fiorentino's mysterious arrival to present day. The details of his mother's return were as precise as Leonardo's work. Secrets tumbled out of his mouth despite trying to keep them at bay. Once he had finished, the artist was silent, as though he thought the ground would open up and swallow him.

Then; "Will Fiorentino ever be back?"

"I hope so. He and I were very close. We still are."

More silence.

"Maestro…may you read the letter to me?"

There was a moment where Leonardo wondered whether he should, but a great weight suddenly lifted from his shoulders. Gian filled the gap that Fee had left, both in presence and conversation. To reveal all to another person made the artist relax, and until his son returned, he decided that his apprentice would be an ideal replacement.

So, without any further hesitation, he read the letter allowed.

_These deeds are wearing on my soul. I feel nothing now but a bitter regret for all I have done. These men I kill, their eyes; they haunt me in slumber, when I'm most vulnerable. Their blood becomes my blood. When I spill it, I feel that they have taken with them a piece of myself, and until I have repaid their death, I will never be whole._

_I miss our life, Father. I miss the innocence I once had. Better to be ignorant to the horror beneath than an active part of it. Tonight, as I write to you, my hand shakes, and I can see only the crimson tide that will wash me away. Should I return to you, I fear it will be as a broken man._

_But I anticipate my return. The days and missions are becoming fewer. In as little as two months, I hope to have finished the smaller contracts and eliminated the threat Rodrigo Borgia places in Florence. If you will have my shattered soul back, I will gladly come to you._

_I will be at Monteriggioni for a few days. I hope to receive a letter from you._

_Cordiali nella fede;_

_Fiorentino Da Vinci._


	34. Da Vinci, Auditore, Death

Gian quickly came to resent Fee. He saw how Leonardo would pour over the letters he sent, how he would forget his work and duties, his responsibilities, whenever another envelope came through the door; he even forgot about him.

His behaviour worsened the more regular Fiorentino's letters became. Sometimes, they would be as short as three words – _I am safe_ – and others they were as much as eight pages, to which Gian scoffed. For how long could he write? Or did he reveal to Leonardo all the details of his furtive profession? Again, he found himself cursing his illiteracy, and vowed that one day he would learn to read.

It was on a dark morning that the painter received the letter he had been waiting for. The sky was swathed by charcoal black clouds, the streets outside quiet, as though no shopper would brave the impending weather to pick up some new perfume.

Gian looked over when his mentor answered the door. The courier who stood on the other side wore black clothing and had a satchel slung over his shoulder, but he was short, and the boy had to stop himself from sniggering as Leonardo bent down to take the proffered envelope.

"Another letter?" the artist smiled, handing over a small 'tip' in exchange, "How wonderful."

"You've become quite the popular man, Maestro. An admirer?"

The polite conversation was making Gian ill. He held the idea that if there was nothing of interest to be said, people should learn to hold their tongues. But ever affable Leonardo kept the discussion up for at least five minutes, before the courier said his pleasant farewells and disappeared into the gloomy streets beyond.

"Is it from Fiorentino?" his apprentice called, slumped into his son's favourite chair beside the crackling fire.

"It seems to be his handwriting. Ah, what am I waiting for?" Leonardo moved towards his worktable, where he kept his letter opener hidden amongst designs; "They've become almost weekly. Perhaps he has more time on his hands now? Il mio dio, I hope so. His work can be exhausting."

"I'm sure he's learnt to cope."

Fiorentino leaned heavily against the wall of Mario's study, clutching a hand to his wounded stomach. The blood seeped through his fingers like a crimson waterfall. He imagined, if he had been stabbed any deeper, the pain ripping through his body would be replaced by the cold kiss of death.

"Here," Claudia rushed to her only nephew, pressing a host of bandages against him in an attempt to stem the flow; "Try to keep still, Fee. It will only hurt more if you don't."

The boy was no longer small. Standing at five foot eleven, his broad shoulders and deep voice made others think he was much older; perhaps old enough to be thinking about marriage. The nature of his work had kept his body strong and lithe, but his bashfulness and introverted personality still remained, clutching to him no matter what struggles he came across.

"I will be fine," he insisted, "Please, Claudia – don't fret."

Leonardo scanned through the letter at least three times before the news registered. His face broke in to a huge smile, so wide that Gian looked up from the fire to see, and placed the paper down with a comforted sigh.

"Two years is a long time to go missing someone," he said in a wise yet acceptant tone; "but soon enough, I'll no longer have to."

The blood was staining his robes as Fee struggled to reach the desk. Around him, the world spun, to the point where he could no longer make out the Codex parchment or the font of water, or the shelves that were stacked so high behind his great-uncle's workspace. It all became a blur of varying greys, and the only relief he found was when he tumbled onto the hard wood.

His breathing was intermittent. His hand was sticky, and his face hot. There wasn't enough air in the room to cool him down or fill his lungs, nor enough energy in his bones to fight against the pain. It had been three days since he was able to sleep. Three days spent skulking in the shadows, never knowing who lurked behind, never knowing if he would live to see morning or if one of his many enemies would knife him in the back. Even as the end loomed so close, there was no respite in his guilt.

"What are you saying, Maestro?"

"May I read you the letter?" he chuckled warmly; "It explains things more than I."

"Fee, please," Claudia struggled to pull him to his feet, "You have to try and walk. I have to move you into the front lobby."

He coughed, and blood spluttered out, staining his teeth and chin as he fixed her with almost confused eyes. They were bright with pain, boyish in nature, which made her heart bleed for her brother's only son.

"I want my father." He muttered.

"If he could be here, Fee, Frederico-"

"Not an Auditore," he mumbled in his delirium, "Da Vinci. Da Vinci…Fee Da Vinci…"

Gian sat back in the chair, allowing his mentor to read to him the note. Fiorentino had become a source of resentment for him, yes, but he was also a source of great mystery, and like a noble historian the novice wanted to know all there was to know about the boy he had never met.

_Father; today, I breathe a sigh of relief…_

"Fiorentino, wake up!" Claudia demanded. He had let his eyes slip closed and his breathing was becoming shallower, more rapid. His hand fell away to hang over the desk, the blood on his fingers dripping down like the finest red paint. As his aunt battled against the severity of his wound, Mario walked in from a bout of training, and was met with a horrific sight.

_It seems my troubles are nearing their end. My enemies, though many, have fallen to my blade, and fewer and fewer remain to torment me with their deeds…_

"What happened?!"

"An arrow, Uncle! Aiutami!"

"Hang on, my boy!" the warrior shouted to his nephew; "We'll see you throw this."

_How these hircine men came to power is beyond me. I discuss it with Ezio on occasion, but he has no answers. We sit during our quiet nights, dreading the dawn, for it brings with it nothing but blood red clouds and a frozen sun, and we must kill again for a centuries' old ideal…_

The colour was draining from Fiorentino's face. His tanned skin became as pallid as white linen, and the sweat that beaded across his forehead was cold. Claudia battled on despite the blood staining her dress; she had to save him, for even if he denied himself, even if he denied Frederico's parenthood, he was still her family.

_My hands are stained with the blood of my enemies. If there was justice, mine would spill with them. But this is not why I write to you. In fact, it is with joy that I do…_

"Uncle, he's not breathing!"

"Send one of my men out to a dottore!" he commanded. With a heavy hand, he grabbed Fiorentino's robe, and shook him so hard that quills and loose paper fell from his desk. "Do not fall asleep on us, Fee! I will not lose my great-nephew this day!"

_I set out on my final mission. I hear the birds sing for the first time in a long time. They chirp with excitement; they know, perhaps, that my black heart is beating again, and that soon enough life will be returned to me. Machiavelli – may God beat the man down – he no longer harasses me to go about his work. He says I am soon free to do as I please. An assassino, he calls me; a master assassin. Trained to be a killer, a monster, and a good one at that…_

A strange man wearing a green smock and beaked mask rushed in, armed with what limited tools he could find. It was with quick fingers that he began to unravel bandages, and with quicker reflexes that he took in the scene around him.

The desk's polished wood had become crimson. There was a tiny rivulet running from Fee's index finger, the boy himself pulled up by his robe as his uncle demanded he lived.

"Bastardo – wake up!"

"Mario, please!" Claudia reprimanded him; "Let the doctor work!"

_After this mission, Father, I return to you. I am eager to meet Gian – Salaì, as you call him…_

Salaì grinned; _Not as eager as I am to meet you, assassino._

_And to take my place again as your loyal son._

"I fear I can do little to stem the flow," the doctor said gravely. Fiorentino's face continued to lose colour as he worked, no matter how many bandages were wrapped around him, or how many soothing words Claudia whispered in his ear.

_May this letter reach you in good health, Father…_

Mario surged forward when the doctor pulled back. He grabbed Fiorentino's robe once more as Claudia looked on, her face close to desperate.

_Cordiali nella fede…_

"You listen to me, Fee! You're an Auditore! You are a born fighter! So fight!"

_Fiorentino Da Vinci._

Fee's eyes opened.


	35. The Loyal Son

Every move ignited a fresh flame of agony in Fee's stomach. Each muscle that twitched of its own accord sent what felt like lightning bolts through him, so intense that he had to take a moment to steel himself.

But nothing would stop him from making the journey. He had come so far – he was in Venice again, amongst the bland and beautiful, mingling in the crowd that at one time had towered over him. These people in their jewels and jades; they were his people once more, and for the first time since he was a toddling child he felt like he could breathe.

The familiar streets turned into grand marketplaces, which soon devolved into the odd stall selling exotic wares. Counterfeiters bobbed at the edges of the road as the tide of people flowed through, and those who failed to see past their grinning lies were captured, netted, brought to a dry land. Fee would give them a disdainful passing glance, but said nothing.

Leonardo wondered when his son would arrive home, after so long of being away. The workshop had been prepared, swept and dusted, made to look as though it belonged to a normal man rather than an eccentric, solitary artist, and yet he almost wished it was a mess again. That was how Fiorentino had lived. He had thrived in the chaotic jungle that was creativity; to live with Leonardo, he once said, was to accept the world on levels that were not entirely sane.

"You look like a brave, intrepid traveller!"

The boy avoided meeting his harasser's gaze, still so shy of people. There was something in his hands – it looked like a key – and the green eyes staring at his skin burned, as though torturing him into a sale.

"This," the bothersome conman said through a thick black beard; "is the only thing any traveller needs. A master key, Signore. A device so very complex it cannot be explained, merely used."

Fiorentino stammered, "N-no, grazie," and tried to move forward, but a hand to his stomach stopped him. His hiss of pain was so quiet it wasn't heard in the low hum of activity around them.

"You'll get nowhere without this, I promise you. I could sell this device for a small fortune, but I'm willing to give it for much less than it's worth."

The workshop was dim, as it always was. The sun had been kept out by thick drapes, and Leonardo had placed candles in his new iron chandelier, hoisting it up to the ceiling in anticipation of Fee's return. The pulley system the chandelier operated on was neatly hidden behind a shelf, for it occupied too much room to be out in the open.

"Maestro, would you like any help?" Gian asked, though he would have rather lazed about in the chair. His unfinished 'masterpiece' – nothing but a collection of sketches at that point – sat at the side of the fire, where he could dispose of it if he decided to do something else. It held a faint resemblance to someone in a hood, standing at the edge of a great height, and in the distance there, perhaps amongst raindrops, stood something grand, something that looked to be a Temple or church tower.

Leonardo waved his hand; "No, no; I'm fine. Could you set out the cake, Salaì?"

Fiorentino grew weary of the conman's spiel, and soon found the courage to shoulder past him. His stomach burned with the recent wound. He had almost died, Mario told him, and should have taken a few days to recover, but he was determined not to fall. There was an unspoken promise between him and Leonardo that as soon as he was able, Fee would return home. Monteriggioni, despite its good people and culture, could never be home.

It didn't have his father.

"Do you think you will recognise him, Maestro?" the apprentice asked as he arranged the treats on an uncluttered table; "It's been a long time since you saw each other, no?"

"There's no mistaking Fee." Leonardo turned, his newest painting in hand, so he could place it against the wall to dry.

The crowd was becoming suffocating. It seemed that they had lost the ability to tower over him, but they hadn't yet lost their power to overwhelm. Fiorentino found himself becoming disorientated – which way was he going? Why did everything look so strange? – before he turned into the place he had come to associate with death.

The buildings around him, at one time houses, now apparently shops and medici stalls, were but reminders of how he had come to walk his path, that first step he had taken to propel him from trainee to cold-blooded killer. The name 'Ambrosi' floated to his mind, and he half expected the sun to go out and the moon to appear, until he saw those faceless shadows chasing after him, or the blood that had poured over the corrugated rooftop where he had left the body.

He was walking the street he had lost his innocence in.

"Merda," Fee muttered; "If only…"

Gian, having finished the cake arrangement, moved towards his master to see what he was doing. Leonardo had become engrossed in some task that had caught his eye, not that it was unusual for him to get distracted.

"What is that?" he asked when he saw the painting – a picture of a bird, its cage door opened so that brilliant white wings could stretch out. If an animal's face could be serene, this one proved it. In its beak was a twig of holly, and Leonardo was carefully applying more crimson to the berries at the end. Underneath, in bold black, was the word 'Uccello.'

The artist chuckled; "Fee will understand."

Finally, Fiorentino found himself in the right place. The shadows were to him a sanctuary as he stumbled into the porch, grateful to be out of the crowds and intense sunlight. His knuckles rested against the wood for a moment as a wave of pain washed over him, before he summoned the strength to rap against the door.

"I'll get it, Maestro."

There was only a grunt in reply.

Gian moved towards the door, and wondered briefly who would be on the other side. It seemed an impossibility that it would be Fee, for even though he had seen the portrait and read the letters, the boy still seemed to Salaì like a figment of the imagination – a legend Leonardo had come up with to keep himself entertained. It had yet to register that he was a being of flesh and bone.

Just as another impatient knocking sounded at the door, the apprentice flung it open.

"Yes, yes, who is-?"

The sight made him hush.

Leaning with his shoulder against the doorframe as though in pain, Fiorentino looked at Gian with impossibly kind brown eyes, a question sparking through them. His black hair had grown longer, unruly almost, but had not yet reached his eyes, instead content to brush against his eyelashes and cover his forehead. There was evidence of a wound on his cheek, though time had healed it until it was no more than a white line, soon to fade away.

"Gian Giacomo Caprotti – Salaì?" the boy asked, his voice deep and guarded.

"Fiorentino Da Vinci?"

There was a nod of the head and the apprentice went to say more, but he was cut off by the sudden appearance of his mentor.

Leonardo's face broke out into a broad grin as he pulled his son inside, throwing his arms around him in an overdue hug. Fiorentino responded in kind, though the action sent ripples of pain down his stomach, and he buried his head in his father's shoulder to mask the sharp intake of breath.

"It's good to have you home, son." He said, quite subdued for how he felt, as Gian closed the door.

"It's good to be home. I only hope I get used to the crowds again soon."

"You will, you will. Soon enough, it will be like you never left."

Gian, who had been watching from the door, noticed the way Fee was clutching his stomach; "Are you injured?"

Leonardo moved back just enough to see what he was talking about. His eyes grew worried as he glanced to his son's face.

"What happened?" he asked, voice suddenly concerned.

Fiorentino waved it away with his free hand; "It was nothing, Maestro. A failed attempt on my life."

"What did this?"

"An arrow. I wasn't quick enough to dodge it. Claudia and Mario – they saw that I lived."

"Let me fetch you something for the pain. Here; take a seat."

Before Leonardo hurried off to the hidden staircase, he gestured at Fee's favourite chair. He was gone too quickly for the boy to protest.

Gian and Fiorentino stood in silence for a moment. The air grew thick, as though tense, and then the assassin turned to his new companion; the boy he had so much about.

"Hello," Salaì said.

"You," Fee's eyes narrowed; "I've heard much about you. How you take advantage of my father's good nature. It ends now."

"Excuse me?" his eyebrows raised as he tried to feign innocence, but he could tell the façade was thin. There was a certain mirth in his flippant manner that always betrayed him.

"Do you think me blind? Deaf? You steal, lie and cheat to get what you want, and my father allows it. Leonardo may be kind on you but I will not tolerate it. He deserves better."

"You can talk of lying and cheating, assassino."

Fee stiffened. His eyes narrowed even more, until they were but slits in which brown, white and black were hardly visible.

"How do you know?"

"Maestro told me. We're what you might call…" Gian's eyebrows raised suggestively, much to Fee's ire; "Close."

"What's the nature of your relationship?"

"Now that would be telling."

The assassin shook his head and took a threatening few steps forward. He saw how Salaì stepped back, but made no comment on his cowardice.

"Regardless of what you know or how close you are to him," he growled, pointing at him; "Maestro is a good man. A kind man. Were it not for him, I would be dead, or worse. I will not stand idly by while someone takes advantage of him, be it an apprentice or a common thief. You and I will come to an agreement – your pilfering ways end now, and I won't hunt you in the dark."

Before Gian could respond, Leonardo appeared from out of the staircase, armed with something in a jar and a towel. He hurried over to his son, and Fiorentino's face grew softer with a small but genuine smile.

"I thought I told you to sit?" the man chastised playfully; "Come, now; afterwards, we can eat and talk of your adventures."

As Fee was manoeuvred towards the chair, Salaì watched. He didn't know why, but the assassin had become all the more interesting.


	36. Over Candlelight

It was the unpretentious way in which Fee told his tale that captivated Gian most.

He described Rome in such detail that the apprentice thought he could smell the different perfumes, see the flurries of skirts and breeches that vanished into wide, sunlit streets, a constant hushed murmur rising from the never-ending stream of faces.

"It was easy to blend there," he caught Fee saying as he envisioned the scene; "There were far too many people to focus on one alone. You would have liked it, Maestro. A lot of architecture. History, too."

Gian saw in front of him the table being swallowed up, vanishing into a nothingness that was soon changed into Rome. The Coliseum stood at one side of him, bold and intimidating, with arches going all the way up to the sky and disappearing into a dense black mass. Denser still were the shadows they housed. Anyone could have crept through them, if they were skilled enough to climb so high, and never be caught for a murder.

"If you were quiet, you could hear the birds nesting in the most worn areas. The people who lived there – all so hospitable – they would be asleep soon after sunset, and there was such stillness, such silence that you couldn't help but hear everything that made so much as a whisper."

In his vision, the apprentice saw Fiorentino balancing on a decrepit piece of ledge, far out enough to make it dangerous. He was as quiet as the scene he was talking about. The hood revealed nothing of the admittedly handsome face, for it shrouded him in shadow, and under the starry night sky he was nothing but another black figure seeking solace.

Leonardo, too, was becoming ensnared. He could see all that was being described as though it were right there, laid out in front of him. His eyes slid closed while Fee went on, and in the back of his mind he wondered if his son were not set for a literary career.

"I climbed. It went on forever. When I reached the top, I never…I never thought I could be so high. I truly was one of the birds. I could barely see the torchlights merchants were carrying, or the carts pulling their wares; they were like pinpricks in the distance. I've never in my life felt so at peace."

It occurred to Gian that nothing had been said of his kills. Fiorentino brushed over them without so much as two sentences, as though the very thought sent dread through his veins. Those eyes; they weren't the eyes of a killer. They were haunted, but kind, and just, and the way Fee's hands moved in front of him to put emphasis on what he saw…the man was no murderer. In circumstance, perhaps, but not in spirit.

"What did you do, il mio figlio?" Leonardo asked, still somewhat enthralled by the tale.

His son smiled; "I waited there until dawn. The sun burned through the trees and flooded me with its beauty. I saw it rise and greeted it to the new day; I only wish I could have stayed to help the women with their little ones. Many of them were widows, you see. Poor girls. Left to fend for themselves by drunkards, fools or death."

"Sounds awful," Gian interjected. Annoyance stirred when Fee only gave him a passing glance, his eyes falling back to his meal of cake and wine seconds after.

"It was."

Leonardo sensed the shift in Fee's mood, and put his hand on the boy's forearm to comfort him. His smile was warm, affectionately so, until his son had no choice but to give his own smile back.

"It's all over now," he reminded in a soft voice; "and your time can only stretch so far. I know, if you had the chance, you would have given those children the shirt off your back."

Fiorentino's genuine smile twitched. Melancholy eyes roamed over to his chalice, which he picked up and sipped from, taking time to taste it before he spoke again.

"But I didn't."

_Such a tortured soul!_ Gian rolled his eyes; _I would die of boredom if I were in his shoes. Killing sounds like his only respite._

The moonlight slanted in and mingled with the unobtrusive glow of candles, the crackling fire to the side of them growing smaller. Fiorentino's eyes caught a flash of movement – the mouse that Gian had yet to catch – and instead of following it, stilled at the unfinished 'masterpiece' that had been abandoned near the fireplace.

"One of yours?" he asked his father, though it didn't look like his work. Leonardo had a problem with procrastination, but he loved his art so much that it would normally get out of the sketch stages, at least to be painted part way.

"Mine."

The boy turned to his new companion; the interest in his eyes was marred by suspicion.

"What is it?"

"That I'm not sure," Gian took a bite out of his cake, "I simply wanted to practice, that's all. Maestro tells me I have potential."

Leonardo smiled; "It's true. Salaì shows great promise. If only he would spend as much time practicing as he does flouncing around the marketplace."

He could almost feel Fiorentino's gaze burn into him. Perhaps it was the wine, but the heat behind them was amazing, as though they had the ability to sear through his mind and read all his thoughts.

"I'm sure that won't be a problem anymore, right, Gian?"

"Please – I only respond to Salaì."

"About that; I thought Salaì was a devil from Morgante?"

Leonardo, who had just sipped some of his wine, peered over the edge of the chalice with inquisitive eyes, staring at the boy whose back was painted silver by moonlight and face was in the orange glow of candles.

"I never took you to see that?" he said; "How do you know where it's from?"

The smile that rose on Fee's face was almost impish. He seemed shy, as though he were a child being asked about a crush, and he glanced everywhere before settling on his father's face.

"I may or may not have had to entertain a few ladies during my work."

Leonardo's mouth stretched into something that was almost a smirk, but more like a teasing grin.

"Davvero? You? Entertaining ladies? Now I've heard everything."

The boy clasped two hands to his heart, careful to upset the still healing wound across his stomach; "You wound me, Maestro. Am I not pretty enough to have interest?"

"Ah, Fee, you know you are the prettiest of all," Leonardo chuckled.

In the corner, Salaì watched as father and son jibed at each other, genuine, warm smiles on their faces the entire time. He was unsure how the conversation had drifted from him to Fiorentino's love life, which seemed to send a warm blush through the boy's cheeks, but he felt somewhat irked by it.

"So, who was the lucky lady?"

"Ladies," Fee corrected, then; "and I forget most of their names. There were a few Elizabeth's – one or two Aria's – and a few more I can't remember."

"A ladies' man," Salaì muttered, "And they were all content with plays, I take it?"

Fiorentino's eyes dulled somewhat, but were only dull for a moment. There seemed to be a life within that could not be quelled; only dampened.

"Some, no. But the rest, yes. Quite charming people, too. Chatterboxes; I think that's why Machiavelli sent me. I'm a good listener, and that's all they needed to tell me about their father's businesses, who their contacts were. Amongst all the other noise, of course."

He sipped his wine again, and felt almost at ease in his old home. So long had he spent catching naps between missions, surviving on twenty minutes every three or four days that the idea of sleeping undisturbed was alien. The fact he was with his father again made it all the more sweet.

"You know," Leonardo said as he carefully put his chalice down, well aware of the delicacy in the topic he was about to bring up; "Isabella came to see me a few months ago."

Fiorentino's hand paused. His eyes were half-lidded as he was taking another sip of the wine, and the stillness was but a second long, for he soon carried on as though the subject didn't bother him.

"Truly? How is she?" he asked, feigning nonchalance.

After Carnevale, the pair had seen each other, but Fiorentino took great pains to make sure they never spoke again. He avoided her gaze when she looked at him in the street, ashamed of what he was, ashamed of what he had done. If they so happened to be walking towards each other, he would dart off in the other direction as though distracted, and tried his best to not notice the hurt in her eyes. When Isabella and her family moved the following year, it had been a bittersweet relief.

"Well. She was asking after you."

"What did you tell her?"

"That you were away from my shop, learning other areas. She asked when you would be back, and I promised I would write when you returned."

Salaì noticed the unease in the assassin's shoulders, how he allowed his eyes to roam as he rolled his muscles back and tried to regain composure. Isabella – a beautiful girl, thirteen years old but looking much older – had been quite disappointed when she found Fiorentino gone. When Leonardo offered to send word of his return, she had almost jumped at the chance. The apprentice found himself wondering what memories they shared.

"That's probably not a good idea, Maestro. No; sicuramente non."

"It would do you good to speak with her again. You were quite close."

Before Fiorentino could reply, even form a decent argument in his head, his father glanced upwards to the moon, and let out his warm smile.

"Ah, but enough of this talk. Come; it's late now."

"Maestro-"

"You must be tired after your journey. No doubt that wound isn't making things better. Your room is how you left it, if a little barer, and your bed…well…we'll buy a bigger one tomorrow. No," he cut his son off before he could argue, "it's much too late to discuss this. Salaì, it's time you were asleep too."

Without further argument, Fiorentino obeyed, closely followed by Salaì as they approached the stairs. Leonardo stopped him just in time to rest his hands on the boy's shoulders, smiling with the barest hint of relief in his eyes, the smile itself void of mirth and filled with the most genuine love his apprentice had ever seen.

"My son is home," he said, and planted a quick kiss on Fee's forehead before moving to let them up the stairs.

When they reached the hallway, Fiorentino turned. One hand pressed against his stomach, the other moved to stop Salaì, and the coolness in which he regarded him sent shivers up his spine.

"I sincerely hope we won't be at each other's throats all the time, Gian," he said, "But should you try to fool my father out of gold or put him through any undue strife, there will be retribution. You can be sure of that."

The apprentice smirked; "You speak as though I should be afraid of you."

"I'm afraid of me, Gian. You should be terrified."

With that, the boy turned, disappearing into the dark room that Salaì had never entered.


	37. Dormant Hurt

Fee grew stronger with each passing day. His favourite chair became surrounded by books again, and Leonardo beamed with the familiar sight of a huddled figure by the fireplace, pouring over his latest classic. Even Gian had calmed somewhat in his presence. The artist had no idea what effect his son was having on his apprentice, but it was nice to leave a full pouch of gold on the table without fear of it being stolen.

Some days into Fiorentino's recovery, there was a knock at the door. Three heads shot up in unison – Fee's from his book, Gian from his practice and Leonardo from his newest invention – before the assassin turned the corner of his page and jumped to answer it.

"Non ti preoccupare," he called in the quiet workshop air; "I'll get it."

The artist was quick to leap to his feet. He had a sneaking suspicion who would be on the other side, but before he could hurry to his son and overtake him, the boy had already reached the door and turned the handle.

"Hello there," his deep voice rang out, "How may I-"

Silence descended as a sharp rectangular pool of light flooded in from the door, and Fee found himself immobilised.

There, standing in front of him, was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her long blonde hair was a motionless waterfall over her bare shoulders, themselves tanned and freckled in places, and her eyes were sparkling grey gemstones caught in the faintest blue water, the red dress she wore giving hint to a feminine shape. Wide hips were cinched by muted fabric that then spilled to the ground and hid her legs, but Fee imagined they were long and slender, for the girl was only a few inches shorter than him and he was no dwarf.

Her thin lips smiled when she caught sight of him. Recognition sparked in those enchanting grey eyes, but Fee was shy; so much so that he could feel the heat rising his face.

"H-H-How may I h-help you?"

Gian, who had seen Fiorentino pause and had caught sight of the girl, felt something within him stir. An emotion he knew well, but had not much experience in. With frustration he looked back at his 'masterpiece,' pointedly ignoring the scene behind him, even when Leonardo hurried towards the door.

"Fee," the girl's silky voice betrayed her hurt; "Do you not recognise me?"

Before he could respond, his father was at his side; "Ah, I wondered when you would be coming! Come in, come in!"

She nodded at him and stepped inside, with Fiorentino retreating to the darkness. There, he leaned against the wall and tried to control his blush, all the while feeling her glancing at him. Who was the enchantress? Was she one of Leonardo's models? Had they met before? He was sure he would recognise someone so beautiful, even if they had met so very long ago.

"Fee, do you know who I am?"

He looked up, and saw she had turned to him. Again, he had to steady himself.

"Scusate," there was genuine regret in his voice; "I can't seem to remember you."

The eyes dulled somewhat, her lips becoming thinner. Leonardo stepped beside her and rested a hand on her shoulder, the corners of his lips twitching as he glanced first at her, and then at Fee.

"You know this lady very well, Fee. Isabella."

Fiorentino's eyes widened as he realised not only his stupidity, but that the beautiful girl he was stuttering over was one of his oldest friends. He had thought – hoped, even, that they would never meet again, and he would become little more than a distant childhood memory. As he looked into the grey pools that stared so softly at him, it dawned on him that memories never died.

The air was tense while the two stared at each other. Sensing the discomfort, Leonardo turned to his apprentice, who was still so fixated on ignoring them that he had barely registered the conversation.

"Salaì, I've just realised I need to go buy something. Come with me to the marketplace, won't you?"

"I'm quite busy-"

"You've never had a problem shirking work before," Leonardo pulled at his arm, tugging him away from the 'masterpiece' and towards the door. When they reached it, he called over his shoulder; "We will be back soon. Make yourself comfortable, Isabella. We'll talk about your commission when I return."

The artist and his troublesome apprentice vanished out of the room.

Isabella smiled at Fiorentino, thankful that she was alone with the boy who in childhood had been her best friend. He looked older than he was; black hair had been recently cut into a tamer, more manageable style, and he had grown to be at least five foot eleven, if not taller. His skin seemed even more tanned than she remembered. His lips, too, were darker, and she caught the hint of a wound on his cheek, healing fast but still with a whisper of existence left.

And his eyes. She had never forgotten those eyes. Kind but guarded, they had always calmed her when her nerves were frayed, always greeted her with the same enthusiasm. As she had grown and searched for a suitor, those eyes had become all she searched for, and she was disappointed to find they were unique to Fee.

She spoke first.

"It's been a long time." _I've missed you._

"I never thought I would see you again." _Why can't you see I'm trying to protect you?_

"When we moved away…I've wanted to visit for some time." _If only you would listen to me._

"Is that why you're back in Venezia?" _You don't know what I've done._

Isabella's perfect pose deflated somewhat. Her grey eyes searched the workshop she remembered as a child, so different now, filled with contraptions she only recognised some of the pieces of and half-finished art. There was an air of Gian, too, for the apprentice had left his extravagant clothes yet unworn around the shop, usually stuffed into corners where they were forgotten.

Her melancholy mood reached Fee before she spoke; "I need a portrait, and I could think of no one except Maestro Da Vinci to do it."

She dared to take a few steps towards him, and was thrilled to see he didn't retreat. Instead, he watched her move, as though sizing up an opponent on the battlefield.

"A portrait?"

"Yes. My…My fiancé, asked me to do it."

"Oh."

Fiorentino looked down to the floor, leaning with one arm on the nearest wooden support beam. Isabella took the opportunity to walk closer; in a few steps, she was beside him, resting her delicate hand on his forearm, and was almost shocked to feel the strength hidden beneath his skin.

"Do you love him?" the boy asked, trying his best not to pull away.

She nodded; "As much as I can love him, yes."

"Thirteen…"

Another moment of silence descended on them. It was a moment of reflection, as well. Fiorentino forced himself to look up from the floor, eyes searching the ones in front of him, while Isabella yet again found herself captivated by the sincerity they held.

The tension did not dissipate, and soon Fee pulled away from her to offer a glass of water. Mourning the loss of contact, she agreed.

"What's he like?" the assassin asked as he poured it for her, from a jug that Leonardo had absent-mindedly painted on some time during his son's absence; "Your fiancé. Is he a good man?"

She took a sip as soon as the glass was given; "His name is Cristiano, and he's kind enough. Very wealthy family. Merchants in Rome; they own one of the largest fabric suppliers there. His father met my mother when we were visiting and…well…she mentioned my search. He offered his son. I would have been a fool to decline."

Fiorentino nodded, though he bemoaned the fact she had felt so pressured. Did she truly love the man she was about pledge her life to? The boy would have been heart broken, had she married someone she felt nothing for.

The more they talked the less tension they felt, and soon it was replaced by a sense of companionship. Fiorentino told her of his travels, never revealing what the reason was for, while she discussed what she had done during her absence, how she had occupied herself before she turned the engagement age. Water was drunk, they both forgot about Leonardo and Gian, focused on the friend they had both not seen in years.

Soon, though, Isabella felt the question she had wanted to ask prodding at her head, and she placed her glass down with a sombre expression. Fiorentino noted the way her shoulders tensed, the dress pulling up just a tad further from where it sat just below her neck and shoulder-blades.

"Fee, that night at Carnevale-"

He turned his face away; "Please, Isabella. Don't bring that up."

"I have to know."

"There's nothing to know."

"You never could lie to me. It's a good thing that hasn't changed."

"Isa-"

"Please, Fee," her hand came to rest on his. The shock of contact made him look up, and he was immobilised by her eyes. "Tell me what happened that night. Why did you have the blade? Why did they want to kill you?"

If there was any will in him to lie at all, Isabella's presence sapped it away. Lifting his other hand from his lap, Fiorentino placed it over hers, manoeuvring until he was holding hers in both.

"Before I tell you this," he said in a grave voice; "I have to know you won't breathe a word outside of this workshop. It is a matter of life and death."

Isabella nodded without hesitation. She trusted Fee, even after all that time, even after the secret he had kept from her.

"When…you know how I came to be with Maestro. As it turns out, I'm also an Auditore."

As he dived into the explanation of his conception, his destiny and how that had caught up with him, Isabella was silent. She took all he was telling her and stored it away in her mind. The relief was massive. So long, she had wondered why her friend felt the need to distance himself, why and how he had killed those men all those years before. Now that she was getting an answer, she didn't think to question it, and knew in her heart that no matter how far-fetched it sounded, Fee would never lie to her.

"When those guards wanted to kill me, I was going to let them. At Carnevale, I…I refused to fight my fate. But when they turned on you, I had no choice. I wouldn't let you die because they were afraid of the consequences."

He looked away from her.

"Isa, I'm a murderer. That night made me realise the danger you would be in should you have remained my friend. I had to put my feelings aside and do what was best for you."

The eyes were back on her. Sadness had encroached on the sincerity, dulling them, and she was overwhelmed not only by that but by the maturity and selflessness of his actions.

His voice was small when he asked; "Do you hate me?"

Surging forward, Isabella kissed him in the way she had wanted to for years. Fiorentino was so surprised that he did nothing at first, but then his brain kicked in and he pulled away. He jumped, shock causing his reflexes to make it more like he was flinching back from an enemy, and stared at her as though she had gone mad.

"You're engaged!" he reminded.

She nodded; "Yes, I am."

Fingers ran through brushed black hair, ruining it as he tried to make sense of the situation. He had felt the tension between them, but he thought it was a result of being so far apart for so long – that the comfort in each other's presence had waned with the passing years. Never had he thought she felt for him.

"Where is Maestro? Is he not supposed to be home yet?" Fiorentino found himself asking.

"Fee, calm down."

"How can I be calm when an engaged woman just kissed me? An engaged woman who knows I'm not only a murderer, but an assassin that regularly does so?"

"I always knew you were more interesting than you let on."

He shook his head; "This; I will die of a heart attack before I'm fifteen, I swear it."

She smiled at him – a real, genuine smile, which reminded him of when they were children laughing in the park. But the situation was far from child-like. They were dealing with strange emotions, and Fee was desperate to protect her from making a mistake.

"Cristiano should be expecting you back. You should go to him."

"Fee…"

Again, he stopped her; "No, Isabella. I appreciate your interest, but this isn't possible. Not now, not ever."

She stood. With all the grace of a hummingbird, she closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his waist to pull him in for a hug. Not wanting to hurt her by pushing away, Fiorentino made no move. What he did find, however, was that she smelt of fresh cinnamon, and a blend of something warm but foreign.

"I missed you," she admitted.

"I missed you too. But…the most we can be is friends, Isabella."

"If it means I can be part of your life, fine. But you can't stop what I feel."

Just as they pulled away, the door opened. In walked Leonardo, his arms full of supplies, clothing and various paraphernalia, while Gian was moaning about how his feet hurt, himself carrying but a few bags of something Fee couldn't make out.

"Sorry, I was distracted," the artist beamed at them; "Isabella, do you still have time? I would be glad to go over the basics with you."

She glanced at Fiorentino, who had vanished into the darkness again to read his books.

"Yes," she sighed; "That would be good."


	38. Offering

The first contract he received after coming home was local; a Templar informant, found skulking about in the shadows with his weasel-like friends. Small included details revealed he was a regular at the brothel, and by stalking Fee discovered he had not one mistress, but two, each living on the other side of the city.

"That clever little rat," he had said to Leonardo as he paced the workshop floor, the late night moon not quite strong enough to bring things into sight; "He's never alone – either with one woman or the other, and when he's not, a bodyguard follows him. It's bad enough having to kill one man, without taking his innocent servant too."

Leonardo watched his son fighting with his conscience. It was a regular scene for him; the conflicting looks of guilt and duty on Fee's handsome face, the way his hands wrung in one another like an anxious father-to-be, how he would almost wear a rut into the hard stone beneath his feet. It was hard to watch, but necessary. The artist had vowed to be a constant support in his child's life, whether or not it put himself at risk.

Gian listened from the stairs, hidden there by the dense shadows that were thrown out by the moon. His fascination with the assassin had reached a high point, and every secret conversation he had with Leonardo, every whispered word became like a drug. He was determined to know Fee's work. He was determined to know what he did and how he did it. His young mind had yet to realise the consequences of his curiosity, or the full extent of the dark path his obsession walked down.

"What do you plan to do?" Leonardo asked.

"Lure him away. I'll find something. From what I gather, he has a liking for women with blonde hair. If I could find a courtesan who matches his fetish, perhaps she can lead him to a secluded spot for me."

The apprentice could almost see Fiorentino's face. His hand would be clasped over his chin and his eyebrows knitted together, thinking how he would kill the informant, all the while striking a pose that most artists would have scrambled to paint. The other hand on his hip, long legs parted as his head bowed down to the floor, deep in thought…he was designed for worrying about problems of the universe.

"Well, tonight is not a night to worry about it. Diffati – we shall forget it even exists."

"But, Maestro-"

Gian heard footsteps; "Fee, you'll work yourself up over something you can't fix until tomorrow. I know how you want these missions over with as quickly as possible, but you are only human, and humans need their sleep."

When he heard two pairs of feet walking towards the staircase, Salaì absconded.

The next morning, Fiorentino was gone soon after first light, and Leonardo was preparing for Isabella to arrive to further discuss her portrait. His heart bled for the poor girl. It was obvious she had no love for Cristiano, her betrothed, though she told him otherwise, and her eyes betrayed her true affections. They would roam to the chair when they spoke, the books and the dark figure, who would be engrossed in another epic tale far from the horrors of his life.

"Maestro?" he heard her voice ring out through the cool air as the door swung open; "I apologise for being late – Cristiano's mother paid us an unexpected visit."

He turned to see her approaching. She made an effort with her appearance when she spent the day at the workshop; her hair was styled in an immaculate cascade, and her shape was shown off in a silk blue dress, which flowed behind her as though searching for a river.

"Non importa, Isabella. An engaged girl must know her soon-to-be mother-in-law, no?" Leonardo laughed. He saw how her face pulled in a grimace for a second, before stretching back to a cool, happy smile.

"Where is Fee? And Salaì?"

"Both out. Salaì had an appointment with a local, so I assume he's at the tavern, and Fiorentino had business to attend to."

"Oh," she tried to hide her disappointment, and then, with a hint of trepidation about her, asked; "Is it…is it assassin business?"

Leonardo froze. For a moment, even his brain ceased to function, before the blood warmed through his skin and kicked started his heart again. He had had no idea Fee told Isabella of his allegiance, especially since he deemed the knowledge so dangerous.

"How do you know about that?" the artist asked. So stunned was he that he found himself sitting on the nearest stool, leaning against his worktable with one arm to steady himself.

She explained to him the events a few days previous, where her questions had driven Fee to reveal his status and what that meant. Even though she tried to leave it out, she somehow ended up telling Leonardo of their kiss, to which the artist sighed and shook his head.

Taking the seat beside him, Isabella waited for the information to process. It was a matter of seconds before Leonardo's eyes met hers.

"Fiorentino's work is a delicate matter, Isa. I wouldn't want you to get hurt, and I don't want him to either."

"Is he assassinating someone now?"

Leonardo hesitated. When he had spoken to Fee of such secretive things, the boy had been a baby, and it had been a long time since the artist had spoken to anyone. Now that he had regular conversation and a child to think about, it was easier to hold his tongue.

"I don't think I should tell you."

Her pleading eyes, though, were enough to break his resolve. Despite her age, the concern in them was so great that he could almost feel it enveloping him and everything within a ten foot radius.

With a deep sigh, he said; "At the moment, he's learning the target's nature. He says there's a chance that a blonde courtesan can lure him out – some obsession with the hair colour." Leonardo shook his mane of golden hair. "Cane malato."

A sudden crash made them start.

Fiorentino stormed in from the door, slamming it shut behind him. His movements were angry but controlled as he went straight to the corner of the room, where Isabella realised there was a large, locked safe, opening almost instantly with a hidden key she assumed only Fee possessed.

"Fee," Leonardo stood, "What's wrong?"

"He leaves tonight!" the boy replied, collecting up throwing knives that glinted in the sun.

"Who does? Please, relax. Speak slowly."

Fiorentino steeled himself for a moment. Taking deep breaths, he even managed to ease the tension in his shoulders, at least enough to give the air of being calm.

"I was stalking the informant in the marketplace, when I overheard him saying there was a ship coming in to take him to England. The Templars know he's being targeted – they want to protect his life." Fee ducked his head down, but looked up a millisecond later. "I went to Sister Teodora, but she hasn't the girls with the specific hair requirements to spare. My kill is going to have to be public."

That revelation sent shockwaves through the room. A public kill was not only dangerous, but damning, for it alerted guards of an assassin's general build and look, whereas a private kill made it so no one could distinguish who did it. Fiorentino would find himself one of the most wanted men in the city if he were to go through with his plan.

"I'll do it."

Both men turned to Isabella, whose eyes were determined. They looked straight at Fee as though to emphasise their point.

"No, you won't," he replied, "These men are not storybook villains, Isa. They will kill you should they know you're involved with me – with the assassins."

The girl shook her head; "I want to help you. What friend would I be if I were to let you do something like this?"

Fiorentino looked to his father, who every time he came to a crisis had been the voice of reason. Leonardo's calm personality and cool suggestions were always enough to douse his worry. But as he searched those cyan eyes that normally brought him peace, he could see only concern there.

"I think you should let her do this." he admitted, raising his hands to rest on his son's shoulders. Before he could protest, the artist went on; "If you decide on a public kill, I have no idea how I will hide you. I would try my best, of course, but there's no guarantee I will be successful. Ultimately, the decision is yours, il mio figlio. But if you decide against Isabella's proposal, there's a chance you may put us all in danger."

Fee wanted to protest – wanted to claim he was putting himself at risk, no one else – but when he looked into his father's eyes, he realised he was right.

Sighing, he turned to Isabella, who had not taken her eyes off of him once. There was a deep concern in them; something so intense it could have been tangible, but wasn't.

"If I let you do this," he said, putting his hands on his hips as he fixed her with a serious look; "you follow my instructions to the letter. You won't deviate from what I tell you to do, and you won't question it. Do you understand me?"

She had never thought he could take on such an authoritative tone. It oozed with a deeper meaning, as though urging her to withdraw her offer, but she was firm against it.

"I understand."

Fiorentino stood for a moment. Then, with a heavy sigh, turned to Leonardo.

"Un attacco di cuore - lo giuro."


	39. Defying all Sense

Fiorentino watched a familiar blonde head bobbing along the crowds, a clearing so stocked with people that it was more an unpenned cattle farm.

His target was a little way away from her, nearer to the docks, where a horde of sycophants and armed guards were busy briefing him. Dressed in gold embroidered clothes, the white-haired Devil was nodding as though interested, but Fee – who had taken a spot in the high church tower – saw the moment his eyes diverted, and followed their line of sight to discover that Isabella had been noticed.

_Too beautiful for her own good;_ he thought as the target moved to greet her.

As much as it sickened him to watch, the assassin could not deny her acting skills. Truly, if she were able, Isabella would have been a thespian for the ages, known near and far, forever making her mark on history as a chameleon of splendour. She jested with the target and even deigned to put her arm on his, which caused his shoulders to jerk and yellow-toothed smile to broaden.

_Be careful!_ Fiorentino's crouching figure moved as they did, wary of the guards that lined the rooftops beneath him, but also aware that Isabella was leading the target to a more secluded place.

They had planned it all; she would take him through an alleyway until the crowd thinned out, and from there would make her excuses – spotting a friend, perhaps – and leave him alone with a promise to return, which was when Fee would end his life. Miserable though it was, the boy shuddered at the thought of taking another, but his saturated depression was becoming easier to ignore when he went about his work. The only time it came to haunt him was when the moon flooded through his bedroom window, and he hadn't the solace of sleep.

The muted din of the crowd became less noticeable the further they went. Fiorentino kept near them the entire time, despite the winding narrow streets they took and the small peppering alleyways, all of which had little cover. He relied a lot on the fact his target never looked up, so besotted was he with the charming young woman beside him.

"I must say," he heard him wheeze at one point; "I've never met a woman as lovely as you. May I know your name?"

Fee was impressed with her quick reply; "Carlotta Abbate."

_Ah, Isabella; if only you were as wise as you are deceptive._

She was more cunning than he thought her to be. Smiling the entire time, his friend took the target down a route of meandering roads and maze-like alleys, until finally they began to approach the agreed destination. A small park, not too far from people, but with high walls and a large tree that shielded it from the sight of patrolling guards.

But just as they walked towards it, the target stopped. One wrinkled hand flew out to clutch at Isabella's wrist, and with hidden strength the man had pushed her against the wall, cheek pressed against the stone as he leaned in to whisper something in her ear.

Fiorentino watched in horror. He had no idea what to do, save the obvious. Something – a hint of his conscience – held him back from bringing out his blade, but as soon as the target's hand disappeared from sight, he saw red.

What happened next was a blur for him.

Isabella saw it all, though. She saw the sudden shadow that skirted across the rooftops, heard the guttural cry of a man enraged, seconds before she felt the weight behind her disappear and heard the target smacking against the floor. By the time she had turned, Fiorentino was stabbing him in the neck.

"Ti bastardo malato!" he shouted in the otherwise silent street; "Cazzo di cane!"

A small crimson fountain gushed out on the floor as their target's eyes went distant, fear glazing over, and soon became no more than a degrading memory of a dishonest life.

Isabella was stunned by the change in her dearest friend. She watched as the blade disappeared into wrinkled skin, only to reappear and repeat the vicious cycle. All the while Fee had turned into an incensed creature of complete malice; he had no heart, no soul, not until the initial shock of the attack wore off and he finally caught himself.

In the shade of the high walls, Fiorentino felt his rage subside. Panting, he stumbled to his feet, coated in the target's blood as he looked at the corpse, just a few vertical cuts away from dissection. A thought crossed his mind – he recalled the cadavers of Leonardo's workshop being similar, but then the shock of what he had done came to him and he began to stumble back.

He hit the cool wall behind him, which supported him enough to gather his bearings. Isabella heard the gulp that seemed to bring him to his senses.

"Fee-" she began, but was cut off.

Fiorentino lunged forward to her, and in an instant, they were kissing. It was sweet and undemanding, expecting no more than it received; so much like Fee himself that for a moment, she wondered if it was meant to embody his soul.

When he pulled back, there was conflict in those kind brown eyes.

"I hate this," he admitted to her; "I hate this life. I hate these duties and what they make me do. I hate knowing things that should never be known; meant for men more wicked than me. But the thing I hate most is that I haven't changed as time has gone on. I'm still capable of thought, sentiment, emotion…and God damn me, Isa; I think I love you."

Her smile was genuine and hopeful. It hurt Fee, for he knew he could never fulfil what she wanted, otherwise he ran the risk of bringing her to harm. The reckless first love of youth was made even more reckless – his duties, so much older than himself, were rooted to him by blood, while she was through cruel circumstance.

"Fee," she said as she took his hands in hers; "There's a chance…"

"Optimism will do nothing for us. I…I have to go. Maestro will need me."

"Permanenza."

"Go to Cristiano, Isa. You have your answers now; forget about me."

"Forget? Forget the one I love? You must have gone mad – do you feel ill?"

He smirked from within his hood. Delicate hands rose up and pushed it down, to reveal the face so often dreamed about, the unsure smile that both captivated and destroyed Isabella's sense. Her kiss was responded to for a moment, but then he pulled away.

The hood was put back in place by doleful hands, the head bent down to look at the ground; "You should go to him, Isa."

"I don't want to," she insisted; "I don't want to be safe if it means I can't have you."

"You can't have me either way. I am dedicated to the Order. My Creed is my life."

Silence. Isabella looked at the hunched figure of the boy in front, the boy she loved, the boy so uncertain in his ways that he could only repeat what he had been told, and what he would tell others.

"I don't love Cristiano."

"You shall learn."

"Fee."

"No. Just…I have to go."

He made a move towards a stack of boxes which would allow him to scale the roof, but he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see intense grey eyes looking at him, their silvery depths pleading despite Isabella's firmness.

"Meet me tomorrow, by our old spot in the canals."

"Isa…" he groaned.

"That's not a request, Fiorentino."

After a second's hesitation, Fee acquiesced.

Leonardo was busy in his workshop, setting about the portrait that Isabella had modelled for. The sketches helped him remember what she looked like, how she had sat, but soon enough he would need her again so he could be reminded.

It was a bad feeling settling in his stomach that warned him of the turning tide.


	40. Affairs

And so Fee did meet up with Isabella, several times, each one more intimate than the last. The pair entered a dangerous relationship; dangerous for him, for he would be riddled with guilt should she be hurt, and dangerous for her, in the case that Cristiano or any one of her lover's enemies found out.

But Isabella loved her Fiorentino, and so she risked all just for a few short minutes with him, sometimes an hour. His robed form hurrying across the rooftops became to her a symbol of affection, love, and loss – she was Fee's, but he could never be hers.

Leonardo knew of the relationship. As much as his son hated what they were doing, he confided to the artist that he had no idea how to stop, couldn't quell the burn in his heart when she was away from him. It was love in its purest, youngest form. It was a simple love that ached for completion; doomed, too, and they both knew that.

"I wish I could quit her, Maestro," Fee admitted one night, when the moon was pouring through the window and he had had one too many glasses of wine. The boy was slouched over the workshop table, his expression so lost and forlorn that Leonardo found himself pulling him into a hug. He knew the sting of hopeless love, too.

"Ours is a stoic existence," the artist whispered; "We love with all our hearts, and expect nothing in return except that it will collapse around us."

"If I were the reason she died-"

"None of that, il mio garzone dolce. None of this death business. Enjoy your love now, while you can – the future is yet unknown."

Neither of them mentioned Cristiano. The assassin felt terrible for what they were doing to him. By no means was he a bad man; cheery, with an affable personality that extended to warm welcomes and an appetite for generosity, and he was so helplessly in love with Isabella that Fee had to listen to him drawl about her every time they met.

"She is my diamond," he would gush in his slightly high voice, cupping his hands to his chest like a performer on stage, "I could write a thousand sonnets and they would do her no justice. Fee, I could pluck the moon from the sky and it would be humiliated by her radiance. If I had one coin to my name, it would be hers. I love her."

Fiorentino would nod with a smile on his face, but inside he mourned for the man. The fiancée he adored so much was thinking of another, one who wore a friend's guise, and again he had to wonder whether or not he could just disappear and she would find contentment. His heart ached at the thought of leaving her behind.

The days passed. Soon came their wedding, and Fiorentino watched as Isabella – his Isabella – walked down a gleaming white isle, dressed in a pure white gown that revealed her tanned shoulders and feminine figure, pledging herself to a man she did not love. From the crowd the assassin watched, along with his father and the insufferable Salaì, as his lover became a wife, all the while knowing that wife was imagining him in Cristiano's place.

Another year later, Fiorentino was fourteen, and with that age came the requests from various ladies for Leonardo to meet their daughters. Charming ladies, they were assured, obedient and loyal, who would love to make his shy, intelligent boy's acquaintance. Each one was turned down accordingly. Fee kept up his illicit relationship with Isabella, and all seemed to be in a precarious state of harmony.

Until, of course, Ezio returned.

He came bearing another duty for his young nephew. Fiorentino would be involved in the large siege that Bartholomew was involved in – something Ezio himself could not attend – and the boy acquiesced, for what else could he do?

"This is a suicide mission," Leonardo protested in that sunlit workshop. His face was a cross between angered and terrified, his hands wild as he tried to fight for his son's freedom, but eventually, it was Fee who told him he would go.

The assassin drew his father in for a hug, wrapping his arms around him as though to assure him he was still alive, still breathed. Leonardo clung to him like a soldier's concerned mother. In some ways, he was. He didn't want to imagine his sweet Fee striding in to war – it was different from shadows and assassinations, more open, and the enemies would see him coming minutes before his attack.

"I have to do this, Father."

"No," the artist reaffirmed; "No, you have to stay here. I did not raise you to see your death on the battlefield. I can't lose you."

Fiorentino's grip tightened, "You won't. Even if I die out there, I'll come back to you. I promise."

Salaì watched his obsession disappear out of his room that night, under the cover of darkness, to see his married love. The apprentice went in and in reverence, took from him one of his shirts, which he would use as a model to finish his painting; a man standing atop a grand temple tower, seconds away from leaping to a perceived doom, but for the trained eye, into a bale of hay situated some feet below him.

Isabella was up in arms.

"No," she begged him; "You can't go. Per favore; stay here."

He cupped her beautiful face in both hands, half of him brought into light by the candle that flickered on her bedside table. Around them, soft satin curtains draped over a lattice-patterned window, with a queen sized bed shoved against one blue wall, and a collection of ornaments littered on white drawers, cabinets and dressers, all of which had blue floral paintings as decorations. The table held her wedding ring; Cristiano had gone to Rome on business the night before, and Fiorentino could not help but breathe a sigh of relief at the convenience.

"Il mio amore – I wish I could," his voice was soft; "But you and I both know my path. Destiny binds me. I'm born to be an assassin, and I must carry out my duty…whether or not it brings me pain to do so."

"I can't lose you."

"You never truly had me. Look," he leaned to pick up her ring, twisting it in the orange glow; "This ring proves it. You belong to another."

She shook her head. Delicate hands came to rest on his cheeks, two grey eyes staring into his kind, gentle brown, as tears began to build.

"In the eyes of the church, perhaps. To God, to me…there's only you."

His lips thinned for a moment. As the moonlight turned the back of his head silver, and the air grew thick with sadness, Fiorentino leaned down to kiss his first love. It was a kiss that found them sitting on her bed, then laying on it, and soon enough they lost all sense of propriety.

Later that night, under cover of darkness, Fee gave Isabella one last kiss and went home to prepare. She watched his black silhouette as it hurried across rooftops, praying that she would see him again. Cristiano could evoke nothing in her that her assassin did. But Fee was a wayward bird, caged only by a destiny bond to him in blood, and he had told her many times she played no part in the road he walked.

In the morning, Fiorentino left for Bartholomew's barracks.

Two months later, he sent a letter to Leonardo, explaining how he was safe and that he missed him, and he hoped to return soon.

Three months in, he was describing the bloodshed and constant death; how it was tempered only be Bartholomew's jovial game nights and stories by the fireplace.

Four months; he was growing weary.

Six; he hadn't slept in five days.

Seven; he had heard the news. Leonardo read the letter over and over again, his heart aching for his son, who seemed so torn between duty and love.

Eight; he planned to come home for a few weeks. The plans were later thrown out due to an increased activity with the French resistance, and he determined he would return as soon as they were squashed.

Nine months; Isabella gave birth.


	41. The So Desperately Wanted

It was a cold, bitter night, with the moon veiled by dark clouds and the stars blotted out, when Isabella's window was opened from the outside.

In stepped a figure, hood drawn over his head to hide the face within, and for a moment he seemed confused, almost shocked. He paused beside the window long enough to let a breeze ruffle the curtains, before he gathered his senses and closed it once more.

_What are you even doing here? _Fee thought to himself as he turned to the room; _Isabella doesn't need you right now. She never did. Why did you come here?_

_Because I have to know._

Around him, the bedroom looked almost the same. The bed was still thrust against the wall, surrounded by dressers, tables and ornaments, but the vanity had been removed from the other end – in its place stood a small, white wooden crib, the bars weaved through by a blue wind guard made of soft fabric.

Fee moved towards it with caution. He had heard the news from a courier that dared brave the battlefield, and had made it a priority to return. His first trip had been delayed – he had withheld the information, but a Frenchman had stabbed him in the leg and left him unable to move for a time, so he had been forced to wait in sheer agony until he felt strong enough to make the trip. Bartholomew, ever eager to dive straight in to battle, had implored him to stay, but he was content that the assassin would return within a fortnight.

The walk across the room had never seemed so far. In what felt like an eternity, Fee had reached the crib, and peering into it he saw first just a bundle of white blankets. A creeping candle on the bedside table tinged everything in an orange hue, exaggerated his shadow on the wall, but he was too concerned with the shrivelled thing in front of him to pay attention to details.

In the bundle of blankets, nestled like a baby bird in its mother's downy fluff, was a baby. His skin was pruned and slightly tanned, his eyes closed, but small, not like Fee's. There was no doubt in the assassin's heart, though. He saw the faint traces of himself that made up the nose, the face shape, the thin lips that quirked in deep slumber. A wave of the most intense love he had ever felt crashed over him, catching him off guard, and his hand reached out to clutch the bar in front, still fixated on that beautiful, vulnerable baby in front of him.

"Who are you?!" a silky voice yelled moments before the bedroom door crashed open; "Get away from my baby or so help me God-"

Isabella silenced mid-threat as her eyes locked on the hooded figure. She had the side-profile of him, saw his hunched shape and the way he looked down at her baby, immobilised by what could only have been love. His huge contorted shadow danced on the wall beside him, and she was thankful that Cristiano had gone to Rome that night to celebrate with his family; they needed to be alone together.

"Fee!"

"I…I came as soon as I could. He's…" the assassin searched for the word. There was none to describe what he was feeling, what the situation evoked in him, and none that could do the child justice. Language paled in comparison to his baby.

"Cristiano's son-"

"Don't give me that," Fiorentino turned his head, the movement enough to make his hood fall back and reveal his moist brown eyes; "You and I both know whose son this is."

Isabella watched as he turned again, and noted the sadness in his pose. There was an undeniable melancholy in the air; Fee looked down at his son, his baby, as though the entire world had melted away and there was nothing left.

"Would you like to hold him?" she asked, seeing no point in denying the obvious.

He shook his head; "No."

"Why not?"

"I'll break him."

Her heart softened at the way his voice choked; "Don't be silly. Here."

Moving beside him, Isabella leaned down and lifted her baby from his blankets, straightening up with him tucked in the arc of her arms. As Fiorentino watched, he noticed she was plumper – her hips seemed fuller and her stomach was a little more prominent, her usually defined cheeks more rounded, if only by a hair. To him, though, it made her all the more attractive, knowing that her body had changed to give his son a safe place to grow. He had never seen her more radiant. Even her skin seemed to glow with motherhood.

Before he could get over her beauty, however, Isabella had moved his arms in a similar position to hers, and placed within them the baby. He stirred in slumber, nuzzling a small nose into his real father's assassin robes, before he settled down to sleep once more.

Fiorentino's heart almost burst in a mix of pride and love, and he had to fight to hold back tears; "He's light."

"Lighter than you thought?" she asked.

"Decisamente," he began to bounce the boy in a gentle rhythm; "I love him."

"Cristiano thinks his head is too rounded."

"He's the most beautiful little boy I've ever seen." Fiorentino looked at her with those sincere eyes; "He's perfect."

For a moment, Isabella was content to watch them. Her bedroom began to fade until there was only her love and her baby, and soon was replaced with her ideal living room. In her mind, she mapped out an elaborate fantasy; she could see behind Fee a fireplace, with iron pokers and a mantelpiece full of books, leather bound and hard backed, his favourite chair placed right beside it. There were four doors on either wall; one for the kitchen and dining room, where she would be cooking a family meal; another for the outside world, where there would be a beautiful courtyard filled with statues of differing Gods; a third for the staircase, which would lead up to a multitude of bedrooms, guest rooms, bathrooms and nurseries; and the final one, going to a sizable workshop where Leonardo could grow old. The living room walls would be covered in the artist's paintings, some unfinished, most of them of his son and grandchildren, and all of them made with the same passion his art always had. Underneath the largest portrait would be a mahogany desk, covered in books and notes and quills, where in her fantasy her husband would write his ground breaking novels between caring for their children. Nine pairs of shoes in varying sizes would be placed by the front door, each one shined and polished, ready for whatever outing the man decided they would go on the next day.

Fiorentino's assassins robes transformed into a simple white ruffled shirt and black trousers, feet covered by socks, as he swayed on a burgundy carpet with their baby in arm. The firelight brought everything into a soft hue. Isabella's heart exploded with love for the man who cradled her son – one of many, in an ideal world. She could imagine little feet pattering above their heads and giggles sounding after them, as their children occupied themselves with games before dinner. If they were all born with Fee's temperament, they would be renowned in the city for their well-behaved brood, and her husband would receive the respect he deserved for his eloquent and sophisticated writings.

"Il mio bambino," she heard him say; "My beautiful, gorgeous, perfect little boy."

There would always be something baking in the kitchen. She would keep the house smelling of comfort and warmth at all times, because she wanted to be a good mother to her children, a good wife to her stoical husband. They would be blessed with his eyes, for his eyes were the most unique gift they could give them. Fiorentino would pick their names. She imagined he would choose old-fashioned ones; Aurelio, Bia, Brigida, Baldassare, Cesare, Durante; anything that would be unusual for the changing times.

And when it was time for dinner, Fee would amble over to the staircase door and call; "Wash up and come downstairs!" and there would be a resounding squeal from Daddy's girls and his loyal gang of boys. Leonardo would venture from his dim workshop to join them, and his wise eyes would look up in glee at the collection of grandchildren, at his son and daughter-in-law, who were so in love it was almost criminal.

It was this fantasy that led her to blurt out, before her brain could catch up with her; "Let's run away."

Fiorentino's eyes flicked up from his son, and Isabella almost melted under their weight. They were moist with unshed tears, but sincere, loving, and with a note of happiness in them that was tinged by unfathomable despair.

"Isa…" he said, walking over to snake his free arm around her waist. He drew her in close, until she was inches from his face, holding their baby still in one arm. "No."

"Cristiano won't be back for days. We could go to Maestro Da Vinci and get him to pack up the workshop. We could run – we could go somewhere no one knows of us."

His lips thinned. His silence was all she needed to carry on.

"We could have a family. Our baby could have brothers and sisters. Leonardo could continue his work in our house and it would be-"

The arm around her waist tightened. It was different from her husband's; stronger, firm, with the ability to make her fall silent no matter how hysterical.

"Venire – let's not torture ourselves with what could never be," he pleaded in a soft voice, and then gestured to their son; "What have you called him?"

Isabella gathered what little sense was still left in her; "I…Cristiano left the decision to me. I…wanted his father, to name him."

Fiorentino let go of her, cradling his boy with both arms again, as he thought. It was an important choice to make. He needed something that conveyed how much his son meant to him, how he would love him no matter what happened, like Leonardo loved him.

"Benvolio," he decided; "His name will be Benvolio." His eyes came back up to her, and a single tear ran down his cheek. "I love you so much, Isabella. I love our son more than life itself. If I could…if I could change who I am, what I am, know I would do it in an instant."

She let him move one of her rebellious blonde curls from her forehead, brushing it back with his warm hands. Her own tears threatened as he kissed her again.

"I don't want to raise him without his father at my side." She confessed.

"But you will, because you're a strong woman, and you love him more than you can ever love me," Fiorentino let a small smile show; "If I was selfish enough to run away with you, I would only be putting you and Benvolio in danger. The most loving thing I can do is let him believe Cristiano is his father. That's the only way I can protect him."

"No-!"

"And I will gladly let him be raised by another, even if it breaks my heart to do so. Even if he never knows my name; to know he's safe, with you, with Cristiano, cared for and loved, would be worth my sacrifice."

"Please, Fee-"

"Shh," he hushed her, "Let me finish. Look at our baby."

Reluctant to draw her eyes away from Fiorentino's face, she did. Benvolio was nestled in his father's arms, at peace and unaware of what was happening around him. He had black curls on his head, little tufts, but she knew his eyes were not Fee's, and she hated the fact she had failed to give him something so precious. Despite the situation, love washed over her.

Fee's finger brushed against his cheek; "I never understood why my mother abandoned me on Father's workshop. I was so angry with her when she revealed herself – I love Leonardo, and he loves me. I hated her audacity to tell me who she was. But now I can curse what I did, how I spoke to her. She was protecting me from evil men's wrath. She knew they would persecute the innocent who were guilty by association. Benvolio meets that criteria, Isa; he has my blood running through his veins. But I won't let them find him; I won't let him know his destiny. My duty to him is to make sure he never has to follow my path.

"With you and Cristiano, he can have a childhood, an education, a life. Much more than he could have should I take you both away. I want him to learn to read and write – make that a top priority – I want him to grow up and fall in love and have children."

More tears trickled down Fiorentino's face. It was yet another thing Isabella loved about him. He was unafraid to show his emotion, not worried it would make him less of a man, which was not a trait he and Cristiano shared in times of hardship.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked. Her voice was thick with emotion.

"Convince Cristiano that you should all move to Rome. There, build a life for yourselves. Be happy. Forget about me; look after our son, and make sure he doesn't get involved in things he shouldn't."

Reluctantly, Fiorentino passed his son back to his mother, who looked at her love with watery eyes. The grey depths were begging him to reconsider, but she knew he wouldn't. Fee had made up his mind.

"Per favore."

He placed a gentle kiss to her forehead; "I love you so much, Isabella."

Benvolio stirred in her arms. As though sensing the tension, he let out a shrivelled cry, and Fiorentino gave him a number of kisses across his face, shushing him.

"There, there, my wonder. Shh, now. Daddy loves you. Daddy will always, always love you. And even if you never know my name, you will always be my Benvolio Da Vinci. Grow strong and brave. Daddy loves you."

And as he enveloped Isabella in one last desperate hug, somewhere in the distance, a bird trilled its mournful song.


	42. Despair

Leonardo had been quietly putting away his supplies that night, with Gian encouraging the fire on the other side of the room, as his son made his impassioned farewells to Isabella and Benvolio. He had no idea that Fee had returned; he thought the boy was skimming through the tumultuous crowds of Frenchmen that threatened Bartholomew's army. The very idea of the danger he was in made him shudder.

"Your piece is coming along rather well, Salaì." The artist nodded towards the near complete portrait of the suicidal man, and he received a smile in return.

"I hope to have it finished by next week."

"Mio Dio; I think this may be the first time you've seen something through to the end."

Outside, a sly wind was building, rattling the window panes as somewhere in the street they heard a plant pot falling over. The crash of the ceramic pot caused Leonardo to start, but only for a moment.

Salaì shook his head as he poked the embers some more, ashes swirling in aimless circles above the flame, and listened to the wind that was beginning to howl at their city. At the back of his mind, he wondered if Fee was hearing the same thing. He was far away, he remembered, somewhere with a name he hadn't quite caught, but was he far enough not to be in Venetian weather?

"We haven't had a letter from Fiorentino in a while," the apprentice remarked; "Do you think he's alright?"

Leonardo felt a familiar coldness pass over him while he packed away his things. His son had neglected to respond to his last letter. He was usually prompt – as prompt as the war would allow, at least – and the sudden silence made him nervous something had happened.

"I'm sure he's fine. There must be a lot he has to do."

"Ah, the life of a soldier," Gian smiled, for remembering Fiorentino was the only link he had left to the boy. Even in his absence, the obsession had only lost some of its bite.

"Never let him catch you saying that, Salaì," Leonardo chuckled, "You know how he feels about fighting."

The wind began to shriek before too long, and the artist was tempted to lock his doors and windows, just in case it helped quiet the noise. He hadn't done so since Fee had left. It was an old habit, perhaps one he should have tried to break; he felt that, if he chose to secure the workshop, it meant that his son was not coming back that night, or that he had seen him for the last time. Paranoia at its finest, but he shuddered to think of the intense grief that would envelope him.

"I think we should try to stop them banging away all night, Maestro," Gian offered with a wry smile; "Unless, that's what you want to be hearing when you go to sleep."

Leonardo had grown used to the innuendo his apprentice would spout, but it always made him blush. As he moved towards the door to lock it for the night, he swore he could feel Gian's eyes on him, watching him like a lion would watch a docile lamb.

His fingers hesitated over the heavy iron key that was on a hook beside the door. Already, the paranoia was coursing through his veins. His blue eyes searched the window at his side, knowing no one in their right mind would brave the dark night, but feeling as though there was a reason to leave his door unlocked.

"Are you waiting for an invitation, Maestro?" came the casually rude remark he had begun to associate with Salaì, "The door won't lock itself."

_Sì, and my apprentice would never do it himself!_

With a heavy sigh, Leonardo snatched the key up and moved it to the lock.

The door crashed open with a loud bang against the wall, allowing a gust of wind to howl in and blow out all the candles, as well as dull the fire. The artist had but a second to shake his head before a black figure was inside his workshop, and the entrance was slammed shut again.

"What in the world-?!"

The figure rounded on him. He recognised the hood before anything else, and when that fell to reveal a frantic-looking Fee, his tearstained cheeks and moist eyes made Leonardo forget the protest on his lips.

"Fee, what are you-"

"His name is Benvolio!" the boy interrupted him, breathless and hysterical; "His name is Benvolio and he's light and small and perfect and I can never see him again!"

Fiorentino veered away into the workshop, so familiar but now so alien, as though in his grief he had forgotten everything that once mattered to him. Gian, who had first been entranced by the boy, quickly realised that the situation was dire, and fled from the room so Leonardo could handle his son.

"Slow down, Fee," the artist put placating hands on his shoulders; "Please, try to take a breath. Bene. Now, what's happened? Why are you back from Bartholomew's so soon?"

The assassin began to gulp down air, glancing about the workshop that had been his home since childhood. In his haze of emotion, he could make out neither the grand, four-year old portrait of himself, his favourite chair, or even the books that were stacked neatly in the corner. The firelight was but a harsh glow in his eyes. All he wanted was to be with Isabella and his new-born son, but that was a fantasy meant only for ideal worlds.

"I heard the news – about Isabella." He began, though he had only recovered a small amount.

"That she and Cristiano welcomed a son?"

"That boy is as much Cristiano's son as I am a squealing maid," Fiorentino growled.

Leonardo took a moment to process the information. The pieces fell into place like a jigsaw puzzle, and his fingers squeezed his son's shoulders in shock, only to loosen again with the softening of his face.

"Oh no; Fee…no…"

"I had to see her. I assured Bartholomew I would be back within the fortnight, and I went to her."

"But…what about the French resistance? Their increased activity?"

Fiorentino shook his head; "I told you that so you wouldn't worry. I was stabbed in the leg. But that's neither here nor there. I went to Isabella, and she confirmed it, as if I couldn't tell just by looking at the boy. Benvolio is my son."

A heartbeat of silence passed. In that time, Fee's grief washed over him again, and he was stumbling into his father as though his legs had suddenly given way. Leonardo held him while lowering them to the floor; his shoulder had always been the boy's preferred place to sob.

"And I have to sit back and let him be raised by another man, because no matter what I do, death and destruction follow me," his voice was strained through weeping, his hands clutching Leonardo in a similar fashion to when he was a little boy, in need of comforting; "Isabella thinks I can just run away with them and that would be the end of it, but she has no idea. Sono un assassino cazzo. I have no place in happiness, in the life of someone so innocent and pure. If I were to take them away from here, my deeds would only catch up with us."

The artist rubbed soothing circles in Fiorentino's back; "No, my son. Shh. Happiness will find you, one day. Your sacrifices now-"

"Don't make me out to be a martyr!" he protested; "Don't do it! I'm not some stoical hero who has a happy ending! I'm not a vigilante that catches the criminals and gallops into the sunset! I'm an assassin who murders because men were never able to talk to one another, and lust after power so much that they can't see the blood they're standing in!"

Leonardo felt another sob rack his son's body. The usually sturdy physique was a mess of emotion and injustice, broken by the same blood that kept him alive, and there was nothing he could do but sit back and offer words of comfort. He felt so useless that he wondered if he had any role in the boy's life other than being the one who ruined it.

As he recovered, Fee continued; "I couldn't have my son walking my path; I love him too much for that. So how else could I be sure he would be safe than taking myself away from him? My footsteps leave a trail of blood. The shadows are no place to raise a boy, or a family, or marry someone who in the eyes of the church belongs to another."

Another hard sniff. His voice was muffled by Leonardo's shoulder as his face pressed harder into it, as though trying to escape the cruel outside world.

"I have nothing to live for, Father. Nothing left. Ezio's cause has taken everything out of me. I'm scared if one more thing happens, my mind will break."

"No, Fee," the artist shook his head, resting his cheek against his son's black hair; "I won't let that happen to you."

"Everything I have becomes something I can't keep. How long until you have to leave, too?"

He sounded so much like a terrified, hopeless child that Leonardo's heart broke. Fragments of it beat enough to have tiny shards of pain pricking at his veins, but he knew that his pain was nothing, nothing compared to what Fiorentino was going through. At least he was there, holding his son in his arms. Fee had loved his own so much that he let him go towards a safer, more fulfilling life.

He pulled him closer; "I will never, ever leave you. Even if it means I'm hung or beheaded, I'll be with you until the end. Do you hear me, Fee? You are the most precious thing I have. How could I let you go?"

It was hours before Leonardo was able to manoeuvre his son to the staircase, and from there he made a long and arduous journey to put him to bed. The artist avoided Fee's room – too many of Isabella's trinkets in there – instead putting him in his own, where he began to move him into a secure position and removed the more uncomfortable pieces of his uniform. The blade was placed on the dresser and the robe hung on the door, while the boy, eyes still watery and tears still stained, laid like a broken doll left abandoned by its owner.

"Prendi alcuni di sonno," he whispered, placing a kiss to his son's cheek; "I'll be here, should you need me."

Fiorentino's hand grabbed his as he moved to sit on the chair, and he looked at Leonardo with those tormented eyes.

"Do you think I made the right decision, Daddy?" he asked, using an endearment Leonardo hadn't heard it a while, and for the first time in a long time, the artist smiled. "Do you think I chose what was best for him?"

He leaned down to his boy, kissing him once more on the forehead; "I think you thought of his welfare before your own. You're a wonderful father, Fee. But now, it's time to sleep."

"And you won't leave me?" _Please, don't leave me – I've lost so much._

"Of course not." _Not even if an entire army stood in our way._

"I'll never see him again. And I can never have more children." _You're the only family I have._

"We never know what the future holds. There's a chance he might return to you." _I'll be here no matter what happens._

A few minutes later, Fiorentino had fallen into a fitful sleep, drained both physically and emotionally. Leonardo clasped his hands together and brought them to his mouth, watching in an eerie reflection to when his son had first been ill, but that seemed so long ago, and yet time had gone so fast.

What else could life throw at him? Abandoned on a doorstep, indoctrinated into a war that was never his, forced to murder and maim, forced to hide himself in books when he had the chance, and now his first love, his Isabella had borne his baby, and Fiorentino had to let them both go. Any other man would have jumped to his death. Why did Fee hold on in such grim times? What gave him that strength?

"I'll fight the world if I have to, Fee," he promised as the wind outside began to stir again; "Even if I get torn apart, I will never, ever let you go."


	43. The Quickening

Fiorentino left within the week and, a few days later, so did Isabella with her new family. She left an address should Leonardo ever want to write to them, but stressed that Fee would disapprove of the idea, so to keep it quiet.

The artist had the chance to meet his grandson, too. Small and light, he reminded him of his father when he was first brought to the workshop, how his eyes tracked every one of his movements as though working something out in his head. There were differences – Benvolio looked more like his mother than anyone else – but to the trained eye, an eye that knew Fiorentino like the back of its hand, he was undoubtedly the assassin's son.

When he watched the family disappearing over the horizon, a stab of melancholy had him ambling back to his workshop, where he dived into the unfinished contraptions he still had laying around the floor.

In the case of the war, it was over quickly. At least, Fee was soon allowed to go home. He, Bartholomew and Bartholomew's men were able to beat back the resistance to a manageable degree, and he was told on a warm afternoon that his services were no longer needed, only an additional defence.

"Go home, il mio garzone," the great warrior had laughed, clapping his hand on Fee's broad shoulder; "You've done well for our cause. One day, your name will be lorded as a hero's badge!"

The assassin had only nodded, his smile small, while celebrations were held the same night he left. He made his excuses; he wanted to return home before Ezio had the chance to send another contract. In truth, he wanted to be somewhere familiar to him, so he could think about his fifteen years in a more retrospective scope. He wanted to remember Benvolio, Isabella, Magdalena, Laura and Fillipa – the people he had met in life, and who could never stay with him.

His cart rumbled along the winding paths of the Apennine Mountains, where he would go to Romagna and catch the next boat to Venice. Just the thought of those pale, hungry children made his stomach turn. Perhaps he would stop for a few days and help their mothers tend the fields, or give what little medical knowledge he had to their ailing fathers. Good, honest work, work that had immediate effect, was more enticing to him than spending two days on a ship.

The horse whinnied in front of the cart. A brown mare; he had taken to calling her Fiamma, and she had taken to him. There was a definite bond between them as he leaned forward to pat her flank, feeling her exertion in the powerful, sinewy muscles that rippled underneath.

"Almost at Romagna, now," he soothed; "A few more miles, and we'll be there."

Fiamma would go to a farming family. He had no more use for her in Venice – the streets were far too narrow and crowded for a horse, much less one that was used to open fields and bloody skies. No. She would have a good life with some gentle natured child, who would tend to fields his or her father had left them in his dying breaths.

Another wagon was coming his way. It was larger, with more men in the lattice-patterned belly, visible only through a window behind the driver's back. There were four horses pulling it, each one either white or black or a mixture of both, and they kept their elegant heads down as they struggled with the weight, their whinnies reduced to small, inaudible huffs.

Fiorentino tried not to notice the fact they were all in Templar armour. He had had enough fighting to last him a lifetime. In any case, they outnumbered him twenty to one, and if they were to come to blows he would have to detach his cart and flee on Fiamma. His peaceful few days of honest work would no longer be an option; he would be running for his miserable, murdering life.

"Stop the cart!"

The shout had Fee's head shooting up. The men before him had stopped, and were filing out in the dirt track, standing with their spears at the ready. Fiamma's hooves stomped into the ground and threw up small clouds of dust, but her rider shushed her, soothed her, himself unafraid of whatever fate the Templars had in mind for him.

"You, there," the tallest one and most heavily armoured one pointed at him. Fiorentino had removed his assassin's robes for the journey, and so they were unaware of his opposing affiliation, but the malice in that guard's eyes revealed his intentions. "We're to search your cart."

Fee shrugged; "For what reason?"

"You do not question us!"

"Ottimo," he jumped from his cart, detaching his horse as he went, and clambered on her as the guards moved forward. A satchel draped over her neck held his robes; Fee waited until they were suitably distracted, and then cracked Fiamma's reins.

"Go, Fiamma!" he called. They were off in an instant, all the guards screaming after them, but there were not enough horses for them to give chase and the wagon was too bulky to try. Fee left behind his meagre supplies of food, but he hardly cared.

Hours later, he was in the sombre streets of Romagna. He remembered the first time he went there, as a child, with Leonardo at his side. The artist had fewer laughter lines then, and Fee had been more naïve about the ways of the world, but his father had always provided him comfort when he couldn't understand something – such as why some children starved with their parents when he, a veritable bastard child, was living a comfortable life of small luxury.

He saw Benvolio in the children he passed. But Benvolio would have a good childhood, without him.

For a few days, Fiorentino helped pregnant mothers with household chores, asking for nothing and receiving meals in return, and played with the children when he was not needed for something more arduous. He made the acquaintance of young girls having to cross the wetlands to the ruins – for what reason, he never knew – and discussed with the fathers things about the anatomy, warning them of charlatans who portrayed themselves as doctors.

He was called a kind man more than once. He would smile, but it was all he could do not to break down and tell them the truth; that his kindness was marred by blood. Fiamma was given away to a woman setting up a 'playground' for the children. By the time he had exhausted his usefulness to the people, he was somewhat of a folk hero, and they waved him off on the boat that would take him back to Leonardo.

Two days later, he was in Venice, walking towards the workshop that now held so many hurtful memories. Leonardo was shuffling inside, putting things in order, Gian lounging as he normally did on Fee's favourite chair, and the dim, cool surroundings did little to ease the assassin's shoulders, did nothing to soothe his melancholy mood.

"Fee!" he was enveloped in a warm, familiar hug; "I'm so glad you're back. When I got your letter, I could hardly believe it."

Leonardo's affection brought a smile to his face. It was his first genuine smile in a long time, and Fiorentino hugged him so tightly he thought the man would break.

"Mi sei mancato."

"And I you, Fee. But, I have some news for you."

"What is it?"

Salaì tried to keep his voice cool and detached; "Maestro is making us move."

Fee fixed him with a suspicious gaze. He had been subject to a number of Leonardo's mad ideas over the years, but they never failed to catch him off guard.

"What does he mean?"

The artist patted his son's broad shoulder; "You, Salaì and I are moving away Venice. Well, at least, we're moving residences. The workshop will still be here, and I'll have to make a few trips here for work, but we'll be living somewhere else."

Fee scrubbed his face. He had been on too long a trip to think about going on another one. But the curiousness in him spiked, and he found himself asking where they were going.

"Monteriggioni."

"What?!" he recoiled; "Why would I want to move there?"

"Because it's safer and closer to your work, and the landscape is wonderful to paint. It's away from major marketplaces, as well, so Salaì's extravagant spending will be stemmed somewhat."

"Is that still a problem?" sincere brown eyes fell on him, and Gian shied away from meeting his gaze. There was something truth-inducing about them. But he wasn't prepared to give up his wasteful ways, even if that meant incurring the wrath of someone he knew to be dangerous.

Leonardo took away his son's attention; "Ciononostante, a change of scenery will be good for you. Good for all of us. Mario assures me there will be a quiet place for you to read, and Ezio will be able to give your contracts in person, rather than through carrier pigeon."

"Machiavelli gives me my contracts, not Ezio."

"Perhaps that's changing as well. Come, Fee; you and I both know that this is the best thing for you right now."

And he was right. Venice held too many memories to it – too many shameful secrets lurked in the corners there, making it so Fee could never be comfortable within its streets. Though it had been his home since he was a child, Monteriggioni was smaller, compact, and he would never be without something to do, just in case his thoughts drove him to the edge.

With a sigh, Fiorentino said; "Very well, Father. When do we leave?"

Leonardo's grin was broad, his hands clapping over his son's shoulders as though in celebration.

"In a week. I assure you, Fee; this is the best thing for you. The open space will clear your head."

He turned, and then seemed to remember something.

"Oh," the artist leaned towards his cluttered workshop table; "And this arrived for you."

An envelope was passed to his hands, titled 'FIORENTINO DA VINCI' and give a strange, red wax seal.

"Who could have sent me this?" he asked as he broke the wax.

"I have no idea. Do you have a friend in another state?"

"Not that I know of. Perhaps this will shed some light?"

His eyes scanned the writings before him, quick and efficient from many years of reading, and then his brow furrowed, his lips mashed together. There was no anger or unease on his face – just confusion.

"Who is it from?" Gian asked, watching the assassin as he swayed on two deft feet.

"This is very odd," he turned to Leonardo; "How is Fillipa these days?"

"Fillipa? Now there's a face I haven't thought of in a long time. Why do you ask?"

"Because the letter is from her son."


	44. Faithfully

Monteriggioni anticipated the trio with bated breath.

Venice, of course, was doleful in losing one of their prized artists, who despite his procrastination had scattered his influence around the city, one portrait at a time. The people who had made his acquaintance waved goodbye to them; some spoke to Gian about his elusive masterpiece, and others spoke to Fee, who blushed and nodded along. Many of them asked Leonardo why his sudden urge to move, but he was skilful to avoid answering.

"We hope you will return soon, Maestro," one young lady had said; "It would be such a shame to lose you for good."

"I'll be back. Work to do, portraits to paint – sculptures to finish," he replied.

On the way there, they had met little resistance. A few searches that never delved too far, one or two fans who had recognised Leonardo, but that was it. Fiorentino spent his time in the back of the wagon, where he pondered the letter Fillipa's son had sent him; he hadn't heard from Ettore since they had left Florence, and twelve years had passed since then.

They had never been friends. Acquaintances who occasionally found a common ground, more like. Ettore was a mean-spirited child who delighted in torturing animals and smaller children, and Fiorentino had never agreed with that. He remembered loving Fillipa, but never her son. How strange that he would send him a letter that read so convivially;

_Fiorentino, my old friend; quite a time since we spoke! How goes things? I hear Leonardo's work brings much prosperity. No doubt you had a hand in it, what with your constant modelling. Or did you stop doing that? No matter; it is good to hear that he has done so well in Venice. It has come to my attention that you are travelling these days. Well, perhaps you would care to join me for a meal in Florence? We have come into some influence ourselves. I will tell you all about it when you get here._

It was signed by an address and Ettore's name, but there was no 'yours in faith' or 'to a good friend.' It all seemed very suspicious to Fee. Why would someone he hardly liked write to him, after so much time? What reason did he have to invite him to dinner? And he questioned the 'influence' that Ettore had mentioned – Fillipa and her husband had been ordinary labourers, people of simple values. They had no influence on modern society other than being the cogs that turned it.

"What are you up to?" he asked as he turned the letter in hand.

"Getting out of the sun."

Fiorentino jumped, cursing himself that he hadn't noticed Gian slipping into the wagon. So absorbed was he in the note that he lost awareness of what was going on around him; the road was bumpier now, and the cart was jolting side to side, as though struggling over a particularly rough road.

"It's a warm day," the apprentice went on, not noticing Fee's apparent surprise; "We shouldn't have left Venice in this heat. E' ridicolo. Maestro needs to work on his timing."

"Perhaps he's trying to get you away from the marketplaces?" Fiorentino's stare was just a notch away from icy, freezing Gian's nerve for a split second before he regained composure.

"I've no idea why. I buy the prettiest things."

"The most expensive things, you mean."

"You should take up shopping, Fee. It's the second most effective thing to ease tension. The first requires a partner."

A faint blush crept on Fee's cheeks, but he managed to keep his voice even; "I'm sure."

"Maestro and I find it very enjoyable. Perhaps you should join us one day?"

That earned him a hard stare. It was the sort of stare that both warned and reprimanded; the sort of stare that sent a jolt of adrenaline to the bored apprentice's heart.

"Watch what you say, Gian. Law could see you arrested for it."

"Arrested? For what?" he asked, air casual and light, though it was a loaded question and his innuendo had been obvious.

Fee leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he hissed; "Don't think I'm unaware of my father's preference. It's never been a concern, and I've never judged him for it, but society's laws could see him executed. Perhaps one day things will be different; but until then I won't have your loose tongue putting him in danger. Comprendere?"

"A shame – Maestro loves my loose tongue."

Fee flew forward. In an instant, Gian was caught in a death grip, his clothes bunched in both of the assassin's hands as he was pulled closer, until their faces were just inches apart. He could see the rage flaring through Fiorentino's eyes. It was as though the very thought of Leonardo in danger had him driven to the edge.

"How is it I can lose everyone I love and care for, yet you manage to stay a thorn in my side?!" he growled; "Answer me that, you bile producing lump of skin!"

"Fiorentino Da Vinci!" a familiar groan came from outside the wagon, and he looked up to see two blue eyes looking at him through the window, "Why don't you come up here with me and stop harassing my apprentice?"

With one last glare at Gian, Fee let him go, scrambling through the window until he was sitting on the leather seat.

The mountains that led to Monteriggioni were a familiar sight to him. They towered up into the sky, scraping the clouds with their greying tips, though later they would dwindle into nothing more than mounds of trampled-on soil, failed attempts at farmland. There were still no flowers, nor trees, nor wildlife, but the air was humid and unpleasant, and he pondered tropical plants could be grown in such unlikable conditions.

"What were you two arguing about?" Leonardo asked. There was no longer a scolding in his tone, but rather a fond affection, as though it brought him joy to see his two boys bickering like children.

"Gian seems to think it's appropriate to put you both in danger," Fee replied, looking at the mountains that marked off a winding path, blocked from his vision slightly by the dappled steed in front.

"Hm? Danger?" the artist cracked the reins; "Salaì may be reckless, but he's no fool. How could he put us in danger?"

"By implying there's more to your relationship than there should be."

That caused Leonardo to fall silent. Long ago, he had guessed that Fee had figured out his true preference, but the boy had neither asked nor confronted him about it. He had never batted an eyelash when the artist turned down another lady's request; he had merely watched, unfazed, as that woman grumbled off into a crowd of unnumbered faces, disappearing out of their lives like so many before her.

"Fee…" he began, treading carefully; "You know I'm…" he trailed off. How could he explain to his son something so delicate? Something that was such a sin it could see him executed? He himself had struggled to come to terms with it, many years ago when Fee was just a baby; how could he expect him not to recoil in horror?

But he was silenced by a wave of the arm, Fiorentino's eyes still directed on the path ahead; "It became a little too obvious. I'm aware, and I accept it."

Leonardo's shoulders eased. A breath he didn't know he had been holding was let out, and he offered his son a small, grateful smile.

"I was worried you would be disgusted, should I have told you."

"Disgustato? For all I've done in my life, what right do I have to be disgusted by who you love? It's far better to love a man than to stab him in the neck."

Affectionate brown eyes turned to him. There was no hidden disgust there, no anger, but there was a question.

"Just…tell me what Gian says isn't true. Tell me there's nothing…"

"Between him and I? No, no; he's much too young for me yet. But…" Leonardo awkwardly looked out in front; "Perhaps, in a few years, when he's…older…"

Fiorentino didn't react. In pregnant silence he looked out, then huffed a dry laugh and said; "You have the worst taste, Maestro."

Leonardo playfully shoved in, which earned a genuine laugh, and soon they were chuckling to each other as the cart rumbled on. Their bond was strong despite the revelation.

"What do you think about Ettore, then?" he asked, eager to change the subject; "Will you attend the dinner?"

"Yes. Once we've settled in Monteriggioni, I will go to him."

"You will be safe, won't you? I don't like how out of the blue this is."

"I'll be as safe as my job permits, Maestro," he smiled, his kind eyes like beacons in the humid air; "After all, we were nursed from the same woman. How dangerous can he be?"


	45. A Surrogate Cousin

"'Ey!"

They heard Mario's merry cry before they saw him. The great warrior had watched them arriving through the window, and when they entered the grand Auditore Villa – now gloriously renovated, courtesy of Claudia – he was clapping hands on shoulders, kissing cheeks and laughing his familiar laugh.

Leonardo hugged him with a smile on his face; "It's good to see you, my friend. How goes things in Monteriggioni?"

"They go well! We're just in the middle of updating the fortresses' weaponry. Cannoni! Without Ezio bringing in the gold, we would have never been able to afford them."

A new chandelier hung down from the ceiling, for Fiorentino did not remember it ever being white, and found no recollection in the crystals that hung from beaded chains. The boy even noticed that the art gallery beside him had been fitted with new paintings; they were from artists of varying repute, none of them ordered properly, but they were there and taken care of. Leonardo would find much to do in a villa like the Auditore's.

Gian, too, had noticed there were things of his interest, such as the renovated shops they had passed selling strange things, things exclusive to the Monteriggioni people. He had decided to go and look once they had settled and formalities had been dealt with, but he found that idea fading as he watched Fiorentino roam around the white marble room, his eyes travelling over furniture that sparked deep, dark recognition in his eyes, and yet provided them no comfort.

Fee had thought Monteriggioni would take his mind away from Venice. He hoped, in time, it would. Right now, all he could think of was his beautiful Isabella in the strange lands of Rome, clutching his baby to her chest as she cursed her love's name – or, was she even thinking of him? He had told her to forget he had ever existed, and had left but a gift embodied in Benvolio. Perhaps her mind trailed over him on occasion and she would snatch it back, either to obey his orders or to protect herself. He could imagine her blonde locks falling over a tanned, tear-stained face, as she bent over her only son and told him, told them both that they were happy with Cristiano, that he was his father and they had no reason to want for anything else.

"And you, Fiorentino!"

Mario's call snapped him out of his melancholy reverie, and he turned in time to be enveloped in a bear-hug.

"Bartholomew sent us a letter to praise your war efforts! He called you a credit to our name. Of course you are! An Auditore never fails to impress his allies."

He exchanged a conspiratorial glance with Leonardo, but said nothing. It was not the time to be arguing his name. He knew in his heart that he was a Da Vinci, that his son was of the Da Vinci heritage, even if his blood linked him to assassins and shadows.

"Ora, Uncle; the men have had a long journey. Let them gather their bearings."

Claudia's fond voice caused them all to turn. She had aged, but not by much. There were crows' feet crinkling the corners of her eyes and her skin was more leathery, but that was only to trained sight. Behind her long, muted red skirt, a boy of six was hiding from the strangers – his hair was dark brown, highlighted by some blond streaks, and his little green eyes scanned them as though searching for someone he knew.

"Angelo, come," Fiorentino laughed; "You know who I am."

Given permission by a nod from his mother, the young Angelo ran up to Fee, and was immediately lifted into his cousin's strong arms. His face was buried in the crook of his neck; the elder boy always smelled of musk, and if not, had a certain earthy tinge to his natural scent that it was impossible not to take notice.

"Ah, you're getting heavy," Fee said as he placed a hand on the back of Angelo's neck, his arm placed underneath him so the child could balance on it.

"Mother says it's because I eat too many cakes."

"What?" Fiorentino's mock-horrified face caused Claudia to laugh; "There's such a thing? Outrageous. No. I refuse to believe you. There is no such thing as 'too many cakes.' Claudia, what are you filling your son's head with? Mio dio."

Leonardo, who saw the change from downhearted to joyful in Fee's eyes, laughed along with the group, and felt a twinge in his heart for the father his son could have been. Angelo's giggling face pressed against the side of Fiorentino's head, eyes bright with love for a cousin he had only seen a handful of times. He had obviously made an impact.

"Come now, my friends," Mario chuckled as he moved towards one of the open archways; "I've had my servants prepare dinner for us. A feast in honour of your move! What better to welcome a hero home?"

After Fee had insisted on helping Claudia put her son to bed, the trio were sitting at a long polished wood table, heaving with a hog roast, vegetables, fruit, a selection of bread and cheese, cakes and other strange treats, plaited buns, at least three bottles of unopened wine to accompany the two already opened, a selection of fish to supplement Leonardo's diet (a misfire, since he ate nothing even remotely meat-related) and other things that Fee either did not recognise or hadn't the care to note down.

The boy tried his best not to eat any meat, but Leonardo put some on his plate regardless. The artist had always nagged him about it – he was a growing boy, he would say, and needed whatever nutrition he could get, which meant that he had effectively been banned from even considering a vegetarian diet until he was twenty. Fiorentino gave his father an exasperated but affectionate sideways glance, before turning his head to catch the last of Gian's words.

"…I hope to have the piece finished within the week. Hopefully your artwork shops will have some of the supplies I need."

"I wouldn't worry about that, my boy. Monteriggioni has the finest wares on offer; only the best for my people."

"Davvero? Well, perhaps I can get used to this place after all."

Fiorentino placed his goblet down, fixing Mario with his kind stare. The great warrior smiled back and copied his action, ready for whatever his great-nephew had to say to him.

"I will only be here for a short while," Fee explained; "I've received an invitation from Florence."

Mario nodded; "An invitation? Who sent you it?"

"My old wet nurse's son. Ettore…well, he was far from a friend. More of an acquaintance. I'm curious to see what's encouraged his sudden contact."

"Be careful, il mio figlio," Leonardo warned as he laid his hand on Fee's forearm; "We have no idea what goes on in that boy's head. You were always wary of him."

"Ah, he's harmless, I'm sure of it," the warrior said, a smile on his face, scarred eye sightlessly looking at them; "In any case, Fiorentino is more than capable of holding his own, no? A boy like him – no trouble fending off some wet nurse's son."

Fee nodded. He had no wish to come to blows with Ettore, even if they had never been the best of friends, but if it came down to it, and his back was to the wall, he wouldn't hesitate. That was what scared him most. He had become so used to shedding blood that he had no recoil to it anymore; just a dead, dull ache that festered in the pit of his stomach, a heavy emptiness that threatened to consume him with every single life he took.

The conversation was more cheerful after that. They spoke of unfinished portraits, the barracks, the men, the people; Fee even managed to discuss his books. As they ate and spoke, the boy caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned to see that a sleepy-eyed, bed-headed Angelo had come to stand at the archway.

The child rubbed his eyes with balled up fists; "Uncle Fee?"

"One moment," he excused himself, standing and gathering him up before vanishing out of the room. "What is it, Angelo?"

"I had a bad dream, and can't find Mummy."

His little face pressed deep in Fee's neck, as though his very presence was enough to calm him. There was an undeniable comfort in the strong, lithe form, and Fiorentino had always endeavoured to make him feel included on his short visits.

"Never worry about dreams, cousin. In the real world, dreams are nothing. We can try to make them come true if we wish, but they can never follow us without permission. Let's get you back to bed."

In the boy's room, Fee began to arrange the covers around him, tucking him in until there was nothing but a head visible. The moonlight poured in from drawn windows, highlighting the dressers, portraits and tiny tables, even the bookcase with a dozen children's tales.

"Uncle Fee?" he asked as the boy kissed his brown locks.

"Yes, Angelo?"

"Could you…stay with me? Until I go to sleep?"

He smiled down at him, a silver glow in his brown eyes, before grabbing one of the old chairs and pulling it up to the bed. "Of course. Here; let me tell you a story."

In the quiet of the late night, with Mario and Leonardo chuckling in the dining room and Gian silently eating, Claudia and Maria together in prayer, Fiorentino told the story of a brave knight to his cousin – a story of courage and honour that prevailed on the plains of England. As Angelo's eyelids drooped, he heard that the armies were charging into a battle that would no doubt claim their lives, but they could celebrate in Heaven a life well lived, for they had protected that which meant something to them.

Fee reached out to stroke the boy's head after he had fallen asleep; "Buonanotte, little one."

And in the dead of that night, touched by nothing but silence, he wondered whether Benvolio had fallen asleep too.


	46. Story Scape

"But I don't want you to go already."

Fiorentino dressed his horse with what little supplies he would need for the trip. As he attached small containers of water to a long, powerful brown neck, he made sure to pack away his assassin's robes too, just in case he was needed for a short notice contract while he was in Florence. On the sun-baked boulder beside him, Angelo sat in three-quarter length trousers, a white shirt hanging from his thin frame, and his green eyes petulant.

"I won't be away for long, Angie," he pointed out, strapping the satchel beside the containers; "Just for this dinner, and perhaps a few assignments. I'll be back before you know it."

Further away from them were the great gates that protected Monteriggioni, its people and all it stood for. The crowds milled inside on their individual shopping trips, but few dared to venture out, even when they smiled and waved at the Auditore boys. Angelo was the only one who could see them; as such, he waved back, though his manner remained peevish and annoyed.

"It's boring when you go. I have no one to play with."

"There are a lot of children in town." Fiorentino gave him a sideways glance, his smile dangerously bordering on a smirk, "Are you sure you have no one to play with, or do you not have anyone who will scale the walls with you?"

Angelo could not help the grin that broke across his face. His cousin was more like a surrogate uncle to him – Fee knew how to be fun but responsible, and his abilities as an assassin came in handy on more than one occasion. Too young to understand the depth with which he regretted his path, Angelo would always talk to him about how he was one of the heroes in their tales, how he like the knights would ride into battle and fight for justice.

"In any case, you have to stay here. Maestro is going to teach you how to do still life portraits. Sarà divertente."

"But there's nothing to paint!" the child whined; "There's nothing here except dirt and rocks."

Fiorentino turned from the muscular steed, who in his mind he nicknamed 'Vampa,' and lifted his sulking cousin from the boulder to balance him on his hip. Kind brown eyes searched petulant green, soon lit up by the attention of his fourth favourite person.

"I don't think you look hard enough," he admitted, lifting one foot on to Angelo's seat. "There's always something to paint. Always. Even if it's just a bird soaring through the sky, or the sun glimpsing out from behind a cloud, there's always something to paint."

The child lurched in his cousin's arms as Fee scaled the boulder, and he marvelled how easy he made it seem. Fiorentino had just one hand to serve himself, two feet to keep balance, and he handled it as though he had sprouted wings. Even when he fell forward to scramble the rest of the way, he never let go of his aunt's boy, not even to grab at the sprigs of dry grass in sporadic niches.

The dying sunlight chased shadows across the rock. It seemed to Angelo that they were in a race, but he was confident than Fee would win. His cousin hurried along the monotonous grey face until they were at the top, where he held him closer, looking out into a sky splashed with pink and pale yellow, clouds given beautiful hues of all different colours.

"Do you see it, Angie?" he asked; "Do you see how much there is?"

The boy could see the palette that would soon be replaced by stars, but not much else of note. In the distance, there were small shacks that belonged to farmers, their children playing in what little light remained, while cows ambled over fields of varying green and brown, grazing like the lazy lumps of leather they were. A tiny figure on the horizon was close enough to be identified as a woman, but too far to be more than a faceless, gendered speck.

"The sky's pretty," he said, hoping that would be enough to please his cousin.

Fee laughed; "Yes, it is. Più vicino. What stories can you see?"

"Stories?"

"Yes, stories."

The assassin brought him closer to his shoulder, where Angelo rested his head as though to better heed his words. For him, his cousin was a source of wisdom, someone he admired as greatly as he did his father, but who had seen more and experienced things others would never have the chance to. Fiorentino was a mystery that disguised himself as an open book. He was a paradox, shy and reserved, who had the ability to weed out evil-doers and criminals with just a look.

He pointed to the land, so gentle in activity, and spoke again; "Those children there – what are they thinking? What are their dreams? Do they play because they have a good childhood, or because their father has yet to give them chores? And her;" his finger moved to the woman; "Why does she stare? Why hasn't she moved? Is she thinking of a friend, relative, love? Is she wondering on the questions of the universe, of her religion and faith? Or is she lost, and feels hopeless?"

"How are we supposed to know?" Angelo asked.

"We aren't. But art asks these questions; makes us think. If Maestro were here, he might paint this portrait with dark colours to represent austerity, maybe even oppression. Or he might make it wonderful and bright, to show that these children are happy, and the woman up there is either a watching Goddess or someone to look after the land."

"How does Maestro show that, though?" the boy was still baffled; "No one would think that. They'd just see a picture."

"Forse. Which is why they tend to look at it for a long time. They make their own decisions on what it's meant to mean, and the true purpose for it will never be known. Some even argue there is no one purpose for art." Fiorentino put him down. When he stood on his feet, he saw a glimpse of what his cousin was talking about – how the scene was not just a still-frame image, but lives, playing out in front of him with a beginning, a middle, and one day an end. The sky was for a split second not just the most beautiful thing there. The children playing were potential rulers, Kings and Queens, or even robbers and murderers, marauders and thugs. The woman was no longer a gendered speck, but someone looking for something important to them; perhaps a relative, like Fee had said, or a long lost love that now belonged to the wind, existing only in the spacious memory that stirred within everyone.

"Fee?"

"Mmm?" he murmured, his eyes rooted on the scene.

"Have you ever been in love?"

The assassin stiffened, but not by much. His voice was soft when he replied; "Yes."

"How much did you love her?"

"More than I can say."

"Why aren't you with her?"

"Angie…" Fiorentino sighed, shoulders slouching; "Sometimes, things happen. Things no one can anticipate. And when you're really, really in love with someone, you think about them before yourself."

There was a moment of quiet, and then, in a small voice; "Did she get hurt?"

Fee smiled at him. It was a small, genuine smile, and it brought Angelo comfort. "No, nothing like that."

"Did you ever love someone more than her?"

He thought for a moment. A name popped into his mind, and beside that, another. The second one surprised him more than anything else. "Yes. Two people, actually."

"Who?"

"The first was called Benvolio. I…won't be seeing him again. The second is Maestro Da Vinci."

Angelo laughed; "How can you love boys more than a girl?"

It was Fee's turn to laugh. His white teeth peeked out as though shy of the sunlight, and the orange glow was cast over him as he ruffled his cousin's hair.

"There are different types of love, Angie. Besides, I love you, don't I? Even if you are a brat."

It was then that the pair were called by another voice – "What are you two doing up there?" – and turned to see Mario, Leonardo and Claudia waiting at the horse. They scaled down to stand with them, offering sheepish smiles.

Claudia fixed him with her warm gaze, her own smile evident, and he held up his hands in submission as he said; "I was proving a point."

"Are you ready for the journey, il mio garzone?" Mario asked, and then produced the hidden blade Fee had left on the dining table; "Take this with you. It's your greatest friend."

_It's a blight on this world that should have never been conceived; _he thought, but took it with an appreciative nod of the head.

Leonardo put his hands on Fee's shoulders. His blue eyes were kind and calm, but worried, as though he thought something might be a-foot with Ettore's invitation. All Fiorentino could do was smile at him and assure him he would be fine.

"I know, I know," the artist sighed; "It's just…what with everything that's happened…"

Fee nodded, "I'll be fine, Maestro. Don't worry about me."

"You know I could never manage that, Fee."

The boy smiled. He saw his own love reflected in his father's eyes, so collected, but at war with themselves, as though letting him go to Ettore's dinner was the same as letting a toddler walk into a battlefield. But Fiorentino was no toddler. And the battlefield had never consisted of fine silverware.

"Give me two days," he asked him, taking his wrists; "If I'm not back by then, worry for me. Until that time, relax. I will be fine. What can Ettore do? He never was the brightest colour on the palette."


	47. Nightshade

Fee was sure he had the wrong place. He reread the address a dozen times, and no matter how much he confirmed it, he still found it hard to believe.

The great Florentine streets were quiet that late evening, without so much as a beggar limping through the marble archways, nor a courtesan hurrying to whatever late night rendezvous she had planned. There were no ladies or lords peppering the marvellous buildings, either to speak in hushed, conspiratorial whispers or openly laugh with one another. All was very still. All was very peaceful.

But from where Fee stood, there may as well have been a whole cacophony going on around him. He had followed the instructions to the letter; the street name, the number, even down to the colour of the door. Perhaps Ettore had written his place of work rather than his home? He refused to believe that this – this grand Palazzo, decorated with white marble balconies in front of wide black doors, a guard at the entrance dressed in golden armour, and completed by small luxuries such as bright paints or stonework, was anything to do with the boy he had known in childhood.

"Are you lost?" the guard asked, his voice polite. He seemed to be expecting someone. Fiorentino had no idea what his face looked like, for the mask took all identity from him, and yet he could see the eyes; dark brown, verging on black, like twinkling pieces of coal that seared through his forehead.

"Apparently so," he mumbled; "I was given this address by an old…" he thought for a moment, "…friend…but this seems to be-"

"Signore Ettore Norelli," the words interrupted him, "He told us to expect you. Seguimi."

Fiorentino had no choice but to follow.

The door was opened to reveal a beautiful courtyard, the roof having been designed to allow a large square of sky to be seen, casting the place in the beautiful glow of weak moonlight. Two servants in twin outfits of muted red were speaking to each other in whispers – girls, he noted, with long plaited blonde hair and crimson coloured lips – but silenced when he approached, smiling as though pleased.

"Fiorentino Da Vinci?" the blue eyed one on the left asked. He nodded. He could feel the blush creeping across his face.

"Signore Norelli has been expecting you," said the green eyed girl; "We were thinking you would be…different."

Fee daren't asked how different. Ettore hadn't seen him in years; he probably suspected the boy to be a gawky, malnourished child with frightfully pale skin, not yet tall enough to look over a kitchen counter. Perhaps he even imagined him with a permanent paint smear across his forehead. The self-seclusion that artists sometimes put themselves in left tongues running wild, and often, through no fault of their own, they were portrayed as albinos who had become nocturnal, for gossips did like an ostracised visionary.

The girls bothered him with pleasantries for a while, until the oak door behind them swung open to reveal a woman with ebony black hair, laced up with a glittering golden ribbon. Her rosy cheeks were like that of porcelain dolls and her dress was of fine jade, a necklace hanging from her long elegant neck, to dangle the sapphire it held over an ample, very noticeable cleavage.

She smiled at him as her dark blue eyes flashed; "You must be Fiorentino. Ettore's told me much about you."

Her voice was smooth, sweet; angels' hallelujahs over a sun-dried land. For a moment, he was almost tempted to fall to his knees and worship her, for she was one of the most beautiful ladies he had seen. Nothing on his Isabella, of course, but still...

He took the proffered hand in his, careful to be polite, "It's an honour to meet you, my Lady. I'm sorry, his letter was brief; are you Signore Norelli's wife?"

"Oh no. His mistress."

Fee's eyes widened, wondering how to respond, when a small voice whispered in his ear; "The Lady of the house is very unwell." One of the serving maids had come to his rescue, though he had to force a smile on his face and regain his composure.

"You have lovely eyes," she commented, peering at him with those dark blue diamonds; "Large. You don't see many men with large eyes. A terrible shame – they are always so very handsome."

"A unique gift," he chuckled nervously, "I treasure it."

"Mm, perhaps I can better examine this gift some time?"

Fiorentino just smiled. The woman was beautiful and she knew it. No doubt her innuendo had other men falling to their knees, men of weak will and minds, controlled by primitive instinct that for him had been subdued somewhat. Living in Leonardo's care had its advantages.

"I'm sorry. I didn't catch your…?"

"Belladonna."

"A beautiful name."

"As is yours. Strange, though, to be named after your birthplace."

"It's a long tale, and I fear it would bore you."

"Trust me, Fiorentino – nothing about you could bore me."

There seemed to be more to her words than what lay on the surface. He searched her eyes, captivating as they were, but could see no more than a serpentine wonder, a deep sapphire burn that threatened to ensnare him if he looked too long.

"Where is Ettore?" he asked, glancing away from her eyes; "Is he busy?"

He could see behind her a crimson room, the most sinful reds embroidered in tapestries, rugs, carpets, gowns, even furniture. There were women's delicates there, too, which caused him to quickly look away as though he had caught someone in the middle of changing.

Belladonna noticed how his eyes snatched themselves to something else, but she was quite sure he would find nothing he was comfortable with in Ettore's home. It was a place where sin was not celebrated, but was not a clandestine act. It was blessed by a priest to keep his soul pure, but that was it.

_Poor thing,_ she thought with a supressed smirk; _I would love to break him in._

"Venire," she gestured to him with a thin, elegant arm, walking towards the door on the other side of the room. It was then that Fee became aware of the contorted statues that sat in the corners – Florence was a statue-less place, he remembered, without so much as a rock to show a famous face, but these things…

He also, despite his efforts not to, became aware of the fact that Belladonna's dress was perfect for showing off her figure. Wide hips and a narrow waist, a perfect hour-glass, who with a smile to make angels weep could have her pick of men. Perhaps, he speculated as he followed her, she had thought he would be an underweight artist, rather than the tanned, lean boy he was.

The room they entered was decorated in the same deep red of the room he had glanced into. Walls were covered in tapestries and nude portraits, their crimson colour enough to wash even the purest man's soul with sin, and Fee kept his gaze fixed on the back of his hostess's head. She was not exactly the cleanest thing in the room, but she was at least a distraction.

He was led to a table, filled with things he cared not pay attention to or list. Most were exotic foods, others were more familiar, but all of them did nothing to ignite his appetite. Even Belladonna's busty form had failed to do that. Something did not sit right with him, either in Ettore's home or outside of it; how had a simple wet nurse's son come into such funding? How did he go from labourer's boy to someone who could afford a Palazzo? Granted Fiorentino had never been poor, but even Leonardo's influence had never stretched to such grandeur. He had an awful suspicion that there was something sinister afoot.

Belladonna made him sit down, and chatted to him about things he hardly cared about. Talk of social change, upheaval in other states, assassinations he may or may not have been a part of, unbeknownst to his hostess; it was all very tame, considering her dress and her double entendres.

"Awful business," she ended it with a dismissive flick of her hand; "But, I suppose business nonetheless. Would you like some wine?"

"No – no, that will be al-"

But she was already on her feet, pouring the drink out in a sparkling wine glass, a ghost of a smile on her face as her eyes lit up with something…something Fee couldn't quite define.

"Thank you," he managed to keep the grimace off his face as she sat down; "But, I was wondering when Ettore might join us. Is he…?"

It was then that the door, served at either side by the maids that Fiorentino had not noticed followed them, swung open and crashed into one of the standing tables, knocking what looked to be an expensive terracotta pot on the floor. The assassin jumped to his feet, though the leather-cushioned chair took some time to push back, and his surprise had made him slightly less graceful than he had hoped.

_Don't let your guard down; _he chastised; _Be careful. If you manage to get yourself hurt, imagine Maestro's worry._

"Ah, this must be Fee!" boomed a voice much louder than he remembered; "It's good to finally see you again!"

Ettore was much different from how Fee had imagined him. Taller now, he had a few inches on the boy, but that was perhaps due to age more than anything else; he was sixteen, ten months older than him, if he remembered, and he had liked to lord it over him whenever he got the chance.

His hair was prematurely turning grey, extending to a full beard that hid his thin, scarred lips, and his eyes – wicked, Fee realised, full of malice that was both expected and unnerving – were more like pieces of burnt coal, hard as ice, as though they would freeze and devour all who grew too close.

He was lean, too. Fiorentino had always assumed the life of luxury would make someone more rounded, but it seemed Ettore had no intention of losing his muscle; it still dominated through his clothes, however slight he was, and the assassin thought briefly that if they were to come to blows, it would be an even match.

"Ettore Norelli," he took the proffered hand, firm and steady despite the confusion in the air; "I was wondering when we would meet."

"We've met before!"

"We're both so different now. You especially."

"Ah, yes – let me tell you about that. And how I came to have all of this."

Ettore was a pleasant enough host. Beside him, Belladonna fell silent, watching Fee as he sipped on the sweeter than average wine and picked at his food, careful to avoid the meat while paying close attention. Very little of how he earned his fortune was said; in fact, much of it was of his conquests in love and politics, to which the assassin would nod in mild interest before deciding it was outright egotism.

"You would love Rome, Fee," – "Perhaps I should lend you a horse for your trip back?" – "No doubt Belladonna is the most beautiful woman you've ever seen. Much better than that old crone I call wife."

Fiorentino nodded along still, even though his mind was drifting to and from the scene. Belladonna watched him in a faint interest as she sipped her own wine; wine that looked to be a lighter shade of red than his, and was poured from a different bottle.

Finally, Ettore seemed to tire of his own voice; "Anyway, Fee, enough of that. How goes your life?"

"Well," he lied; "Maestro and I have had quite a time climbing through the ranks."

"So I've heard. You're travelling now, I hear?"

"Sì – I've been known to travel. Collecting data, mostly. I plan to compile it all into a book at some point."

Fiorentino could not find it in his heart to mourn his preferred career. As a novelist, he would have tried to change the world through words, challenge ideals rooted in years of tradition, and yet his passive form of rebellion seemed inefficient to his peers. Killing, they maintained, was the only way to advance their goals, much as it 'pained' them to admit.

Ettore swirled his wine in his glass, and Fee noticed it was the same shade as Belladonna's. Only his seemed to be a dark crimson. It was then that the corners of his vision began to grow blurry, his hands digging into the table to keep himself upright as a wave of nausea washed over him.

In his haze of sight, he could see Ettore grinning.

"You know," he said, continuing to swirl his wine; "The berries of a Belladonna plant are toxic. Consumption of two to five is lethal to a human adult. You should consider yourself lucky."

"What have you-" Fiorentino was cut off by his own gasp for breath. His lungs were constricting, and beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, landing in tiny pools on the flagstone floor.

Ettore sipped his own wine, "My own Belladonna;" he gestured to the woman beside him, her own smile tinged with a trace of regret; "only put one in the wine. That, and the nectar from the stalk. Very deadly. A sweet taste, no?"

He had an urge to throw up. The meagre amount of food he had swallowed threatened to make a sudden reappearance, and it was all Fee could do not to pass out in his pain. His muscles were twitching of their own accord. He tried to get a handle on them, but they refused.

Distantly, he became aware that Ettore had risen to his feet, and he could sense that he was circling the table in his haze of poisoned revulsion; "You see, Fee, I know you're an assassin. A murdering sycophant for Machiavelli. Sono deluso. And surprised. You never liked hitting children or killing those irritating little rodents that wandered the streets, but you have no qualm murdering an innocent man? A father? Someone's son?"

"I…I…"

"Soon after you left, my mother was employed by one Signora Viola de Pazzi. You may remember the name."

He remembered the surname. Francesco de Pazzi; one of Ezio's old contracts, and a man who had vilified the middle classes, particularly those who tried to climb up the social ladder. Viola must have been someone dear to him. A wife? A daughter? Fiorentino had never met her. Nor had he met her father, or her brother, both of whom were now dead and their legacies forgotten.

"Dreadful bit of business, really," Ettore's hands came to rest on the back of Fee's chair, his mouth close to his ear; "Stripped of her right to marry by the Medici, she and her baby were forced to seek help with the lowest of the low – someone reliable, but affordable. Like my mother. You remember her, don't you?"

There was no answer. Just a faint, choked gurgle, a broken word that died in the tense air.

"Well," his hot breath ghosted along the shell of Fee's ear; "She and Viola; they grew close. But when Viola told her that she planned to carry on her family's work, Mother would hear none of it. She refused to take part. By then, I was old enough to make my own decision. And why wouldn't I lend a hand to a grieving woman? So she gave me what I wanted – her father had left quite the inheritance, you see – and here I am, a Templar, about to bring in one of the many thorns in our side."

Fiorentino could feel his breath evening out. Soon enough, the poison would send him to sleep, and from there it would be a miracle if he woke up again. A dozen faces flooded through his mind; Leonardo; Benvolio; Isabella; Salaì; Ezio; Claudia; and Mario, which brought him to make a feeble attempt at deploying his blade, but to no avail. He was at the mercy of his captor. A captor who had once been the same height as him, and of a slightly lower class.

"Mother would be so ashamed if she could see me now. It's a good thing she hid herself away. Father, too. But don't you fret about them, Fee. Venire; it's time you went to sleep, little baby."

As he succumbed to the poison flowing through his veins, Fee heard, in a tunnel-like surround sound, Belladonna murmuring; "A shame – he is quite interesting."


	48. No Rest for the Wicked

Three days. It was three days since the dinner, and there had been no word from Fee. No letter, no note; not even a carrier pigeon to tell them he had taken up some assignments. The silence had Leonardo pacing around his new Tuscan workshop, mulling over his options, wondering whether or not to take a horse and go search for the boy himself.

"I'm sure he's fine," Mario tried to soothe him on the eve of the third day, seated on one of the futons that had been peppered around the Villa, "Perhaps he found a girl to keep him entertained."

Leonardo took in his words, hand clasped around his chin, but could see no sense in them. Fiorentino had never, ever disappeared on a whim. The constant notes were meant to keep his father sure of his well-being, and if those were no longer coming to him, the artist had a bad feeling that his boy was in danger.

"Fee's not like that. He would have sent me a letter if he was staying any longer, I know it. He always does. When he's able, he makes sure to keep me updated."

"He's a young man. A hot-blooded Auditore, working hard for his keep. A girl has caught his interest somewhere in Florence. Una piuttosto ragazza. There's nothing to worry about, Leonardo," Mario smiled at him; that warm, kind smile, ignorant of fact but lined with good intentions, "Give him a few days to have his fun, and he will return soon enough."

But as the fourth day passed, and then a fifth, Leonardo only grew more worried. He refused to eat his meals, painting his only respite. When he was neither painting nor pacing the workshop floor, he spent his time by the window, where he hoped to catch a fleeting glimpse of the pigeon that would calm his nerves, perhaps see Fiorentino return on his muscular steed Vampa.

It was on the sixth day that they discovered what happened.

Gian, subdued by his mentor's quiet anxiousness, had been the first to see Ezio coming in from the Florentine road. He called out; "Maestro! It's Ezio!" without meaning to, for he had no idea if the assassin brought with him news of Fee's whereabouts. By this point even Mario had grown apprehensive, and so they all hurried out to the front of the Villa as though their returning friend was a messenger of God.

"Ezio!" Leonardo was the first to greet him, hurrying ahead of the others with his beret in hand; "Do you know where Fee is? Have you any news?"

Underneath the hood, it seemed Ezio was at war with himself. The elder assassin had thought on what he would tell his friend – his trusting, kind friend, who had done nothing except support him in everything he had done, even when it involved indoctrinating his only son into the Order.

Machiavelli had told him to pass on the news. It was his solemn duty, he claimed, to be there in hard times. When there were no hard times, that was when the assassins would fade into the background, either in extinction or hibernation, where they would wait for burdens they would surely become the bearers of.

"Leonardo…Mi dispacie," he said, taking the artist's elbow in his hand as though to steady him; "I'm so sorry. I never thought he would get himself in this kind of danger. Not with the proper training."

His heartbeat raced. The overcast skies were suddenly too heavy to stay up, falling all around him until even the buildings tumbled under their weight, a once grand Monteriggioni reduced to nothing but splinters and ash.

Staggering, it was only due to Ezio's hand that Leonardo was able to keep his balance. The artist fixed him with frantic eyes, eyes that said the volumes he couldn't, and his friend knew him well enough to elaborate.

"I was in Firenze when I heard. Ettore – his friend? – he's a Templar. And he knew Fee was an assassin."

"Dio mio," Mario said somewhere in the background; "This can't be."

Ezio raised his head to look at him, grim eyes somehow visible in the darkness of his hood; "It's true, Uncle. Every word of it."

Leonardo's body grew numb with shock. He had suspected something was afoot, and yet he hadn't insisted his son decline the invitation. Somehow, perhaps irrationally, the artist blamed himself, thought that he could have done more to protect the young man in his care; or perhaps his care was the reason why Fiorentino…he daren't think about it. He would make no assumptions until Ezio had told his tale.

It was this determination that helped him clutch at the last vestiges of his sanity, fixing the assassin with aching blue eyes. There was enough despair in them to have made a hardened soldier weep.

"What happened?" he asked, in a voice so small it was almost inaudible; "Please, Ezio. What happened to my son?"

"He…it's rumoured there was poison in his meal. Either in the wine or the food; I have no idea which. A Belladonna plant."

_Deadly_; Leonardo's fragmented heart thudded, his mind still worked; _Two of its berries could kill a man. Three could kill his corpse. No. Please, no._

"Fee is Ettore's contribution to 'ridding Firenze of their murdering scum.' A Templar attempt to regain control."

"What's happened to my boy?!" the artist exclaimed; "Is he dead? Did that omicidio bastardo kill him?!"

A great wave of grief washed over him in Ezio's silence. It seemed that all was lost. In an instant, he saw the bright light that was Fee extinguished from his life; that quiet, round headed baby faded into darkness, the hand basket becoming a headstone, and in stony italics, with a name and date, Leonardo could see the legacy his son had left. He could see the children he had helped along his travels. The parents that knew more for Fiorentino's time. The animals, free to soar the skies or roam the land, who perhaps had forgotten the kind faced young boy that had set them loose, or the toddling infant who had nursed them back to health in the winter months – even they had gained something from his life. Everyone Fee had met had been touched in some way; his life had benefitted them.

But not him. Never him. In fifteen years, he had known pain, agonising, sweet love marred by the sting of the Order, and had lost something irreplaceable. His dreams of literature had been ripped away from him. He had left nothing material behind, nothing beyond memories, and it seemed a cruel shame that Leonardo had only a collection of books with bent spines and doodled sketches to hold onto.

"I…I feel…" he had no idea what he was feeling. When he began to stagger to one side, Gian was there to support him, concerned for the mentor he both loved and respected. His own grief was spiralling from his stomach to his throat, but he dare not shed a tear, not in front of them.

Ezio watched as Leonardo was propped up, and then went on; "He stands accused of murder and conspiracy. He awaits execution."

A great depression lifted from the artist's mood. The situation was bleak, but his son was alive. Fiorentino still breathed, still thought; still had a chance of escape if they were clever about it.

Mario, who had fallen silent in mourning, perked up enough to begin making plans; "We go there with my men. I create distraction enough for you to get him out, and then we take the fight straight to that figlio di puttana!"

"No, Uncle. Fee has yet to be identified by the Templars. If we kill Ettore first, we can give him back his freedom."

"No identity? The public don't know who he is?" Gian asked. He still had Leonardo weighing down on him, but the artist was light – hardly the sort to bring him to the ground.

"They know he's an assassin," Ezio explained; "and, I assume that's all, for the thieves only knew of him because they had gone to inspect the prisoner. They recognised him; someone who helped them long ago, they claimed."

_That sounds like my Fee. Helpful to everyone he comes across. It's my turn to help him._

"We have to save him," Leonardo straightened. The moment of grief was surpassed by a fierce determination; a father protecting the boy he still saw as an infant.

"Leonardo-"

"Execution, Ezio. Even with the skills you've given him, it's hard to escape an execution. We go to help him. To see if we can help. And if not, I'll gladly walk with him to the gallows."

Further away, in Florence, Fiorentino looked out through the bars at the gloomy streets beyond; streets filled with an austerity he hadn't noticed as a child. The absence of statues in that giant tower was suddenly all he could think about. That, and the fact that he was so far away from his family.

Around him, the cell was not the height of luxury. There was a hard bench on which he sat, knees bent, arms slung over them, and the walls were nothing but grey stone. Rusted iron bars kept him in place; beyond them, Belladonna sat, watching him in a pregnant silence that he had no desire to break.

"Do you want to send any letters?" she asked. There was a twinge of humanity about her, however slight, and the kind eyes of the imprisoned man evoked that twinge, coaxing it out of its long hibernation.

He shook his head.

"No family you want to speak to?"

He nodded. Still, he refused to look at her. She was the height of femininity and an enchantress, but inside, an undercurrent of evil existed, a snake coiling itself around the thorny stem of a rose. He was sickened by her.

And it seemed that lonely, isolated cell, which overlooked the town he had been born and abandoned in, was to become his final home in the short life he had led.


	49. Imprisonment

Fiorentino had no stomach for food, so whatever meagre portions he was sent remained untouched. Guards would take it for themselves, jeering at him, but were unnerved by his still form and persistent silence, the way he looked out at Florence as though searching for something, and after a while resolved to stay as far away from him as possible.

He was given a mock hood to shield his face, which he wore without so much as a murmur of protest. It scratched against his skin like the sting of rat's claws. Made of patched burlap, crudely thrown together from surplus material so as to be cheap, it did little to block out the light that filtered through the iron bars and pooled on the dirty flagstone floor, highlighting the cracks that marked off separate sections and dried blood which painted the walls.

But despite his surroundings, Fee was content. He was content to watch the people milling about their lives, buying things in the small marketplace below, or sunning themselves on the benches that were placed around the clearing's edge. He was content to see the birds as they soared through a brilliant blue sky, white and grey wings casting shadows on his face, across the bars that held him captive. Every day, someone new was singing, or calling out to a loved one, and he would close his eyes to imagine that he was in a study room overlooking Florence while the world went on around him.

Death was on the horizon for him; he had heard the guards discussing it when they went on their patrols. They spoke of the gallows, the headsman's axe, drowning; even the guillotine. The hot topic was how Ettore Norelli planned to do away with their quiet prisoner, though not once was it questioned why the assassin had given them no trouble, or had refused every offer made to him to write to his loved ones.

The truth was simple – Fee was tired. Skulking in the shadows had exhausted his will, and he found that his time was better spent remembering those loved ones than worrying them with his last words. He had accepted his fate. Execution was justice, not because it was carried out by the Templars, but because it was repaying all the lives he had taken away, all the innocent men he had killed to help Ezio's cause.

Fiorentino Da Vinci planned to meet his end with grace.

Circumstance was a cruel, unpredictable mistress. It wielded far too much power over men's lives. Fiorentino was a victim of it, as was Isabella, as was Ezio, and he found himself wondering why it had chosen him – him, of all people – to carry out something so sinister and clandestine. Why could he have not lived the simple, quiet life of an artist's son? Why were his dreams ignored while others were able to get married and raise their children? These questions swirled in his head as the bustle of Florentine life went on around him, thriving under his gaze while his soul withered, defeated.

"You have a visitor." he heard Belladonna's voice outside of the bars, but refused to turn to her. He would not look at the pretty, deceptive face. Poison ran through her veins and fuelled her heart, which was black with the stain of her misdeeds, and if he were to see the beauty it refused to touch he would wonder just what 'justice' there was.

Shoes tapped against the prison's stone floor. A woman's shoes. He had no idea what woman would see him; the few he knew lived in Venice, Rome and Forli, while his aunt and grandmother were still in Tuscany.

"I need to see your eyes."

That voice. He remembered it from somewhere. Diving through his mind, Fiorentino reached out into the murkier, darker recesses where his earliest memories were kept. He searched for the woman who had spoken with such a shrill pitch, and as he did so she carried on talking.

"I need to see your eyes. My husband told me…told me they were different. Let me see."

Fee stilled, thinking about his options. He could have refused to acknowledge her and kept looking out the window, his knees against his chest and his arms folded across them to balance his head. There was nothing dictating he turned to let her see in the darkness of his hood.

Except that tiny, innate vice within him that said she was a friend.

With a small amount of trepidation, Fiorentino turned. His neck ached as it had been still for so long, and when he finally managed to face her, it stiffened even more.

Standing in the dark interior of the prison tower, wearing a tailored dress of burgundy that dragged across the floor, was Magdalena. She was older – her hair had thinned somewhat and lost its bounce, but still gleamed a glorious blonde, and she was plumper, with a more motherly air. Her green eyes were like pools of the calmest water. Just looking into them made Fee relax, easing shoulders that had long been tensed, soothing a mood that had been wrought with melancholy acceptance and macabre thoughts.

Her face was elated as she rushed to the bars; "It is you! I thought…well, I had hoped it wasn't, but it is!"

Gloved hands gripped the grimy iron, and were no doubt stained by it. Fee stood from where he was sitting, not without groans of protest from his joints, which were quickly silenced when he walked to meet her.

"Signora Magdalena," he muttered shyly; "What are you doing here? This is no place for someone like you."

"I could ask the same question! They're accusing you of murder, Fee!" she shook her pretty blonde head; "Omicidio! My husband tells me you may go to the gallows!"

He dared to look into her eyes, now so concerned for the boy she had known from his infancy, and his shyness dissipated. It was nice to see a face not covered by a helmet.

"I may."

"But I know you, Fee; I know you aren't capable of something like that. Look at you! You're still so young!"

"Signora, please – their accusations are true."

She fell silent. The kind brown eyes still looked at her, so desperate to explain themselves, so she stared back until he elaborated.

"I am as much a murderer as I am young. I can't tell you the details or I'd put you in danger. But I belong here. I deserve this punishment."

His fingers grasped the bars. Magdalena spied cuts on them, some deep enough to have been made by a knife, though they were beginning to heal.

"And if the gallows are my destiny, I won't fight it."

She was stunned into silence. The sunlight that flowed through the window lit up his back, until there was a faint glow around him; it made her remember him as that round headed baby that was almost kidnapped when they met, who had forced her to run in brand new shoes to save, and who she had watched go from a dribbling infant to a curious, bright-eyed young boy. It made no sense that he was now a killer. She refused to believe it. There was still so much kindness in his eyes that it was impossible he did it out of his own volition, and it was then she noticed the torment, the unfathomable despair that ran underneath.

Magdalena knew Fiorentino Da Vinci, even if she hadn't seen him in years. She knew him to be that darling who had cried because he stepped on a snail. The child who had held a funeral for the same snail later that day, having gathered up some 'friends' to attend, and had recited a memorised passage of the Bible as he floated the coffin (his shoe) down a river. He was the boy who had picked flowers for her when she went to him in the courtyard.

Fee was no murderer.

"I'll talk with my husband," she promised him; "He's an important man here. Captain of the guard. I'll speak with him and get you-"

"Per favore, no."

"Fee, you can't just-!"

"I've had my share of hurt in this world, Signora," he interrupted again, this time with a note of unhappiness in his voice, and put his hand over hers as though comforting her, reassuring her he was in his right mind; "I've done things and seen things no good man would see or do. If I'm a bad person, the gallows are where I belong."

Tears pricked her eyes. All she could see before her was the baby, not the handsome young man hiding in the shadows.

"You're suicidal," she protested.

His smile, soft and sad, made her heart ache for him; "Perhaps that was my destiny all along."


	50. Escapist

Even as the cart left the Apennine Mountains and rumbled into Florence, Leonardo found no peace.

The familiar sights and smells provided little comfort; they were but memories of his son as a child, leaving their home for the first time, on the artist's vain hope that they would escape his impending fate. The narrow streets that would suddenly give way to wide, open clearings and wider roads did nothing but mock his cherished recollections. They taunted him, reminded him of his failure to protect Fiorentino, and seemed to almost boast of the fact that those same streets would see the boy to his end.

Leonardo felt like he was walking into a tomb.

"What do we do from here, Maestro?" Gian asked, quivering next to him with both excitement and apprehension; "Do we go straight to him?"

Hidden away in the cart's lattice belly were Ezio and Mario – besides them, Claudia, and her stow-away son Angelo. They had discovered the child under one of the tarps some time during their travels but, with Monteriggioni far behind them and time running out, his mother had decided to let him stay, not without a chastising and promised sanctions when they returned home.

They could still hear her; "Onestamente, Angelo; do you think this is a game?! We're here to save your cousin Fee – not to play hide and seek!"

Leonardo saw the prison tower the moment they entered the marketplace. It stretched high in the sky as though to scrape the clouds, taunting him, telling him that it had his son and had no intention of giving him up. The wooden supports and dull tapestries led all the way to three or four tiny, square windows, themselves blocked by the iron restraints, which would lead to the prison cells. His heart ached to think of Fiorentino in there, chains around his ankles, or perhaps pacing a dirty, grey room, confined by bars like a dove in a cage.

It was an afterthought that he was in the same prison his father Federico had been sent to. Shivering at the thought, Leonardo tried to push it away, for if he let his mind wander to the end of that story he knew he would resign himself to his son's fate, and would fight nowhere near as valiantly as he would if he still had hope.

"Leonardo, try to find a stable or a place to put the cart," Mario advised from inside the wagon; "We need to discuss our plan of attack."

In the prison tower, Fiorentino was looking out as he normally did, watching the world below him. His eyes were drawn to a cart rumbling through the crowd of featureless faces, and soon he realised why. He would recognise that red beret anywhere.

_Il mio dio – Maestro, what are you doing here?!_

He leaned forward so as to follow the artist's movement. The cart disappeared into a small alcove out of his line of sight, and he was forced to wonder why his father insisted on being so reckless, insisted on doing things that put himself at risk. Fee had accepted his fate; why could Leonardo not do the same?

"The plan is this," Ezio said after they had climbed out of the wagon. His limbs felt stiff from being in the same position for so long, and as they stretched and the muscles warmed, he remembered a time when his joints only gave him groans of protest.

Before him stood his team; Leonardo, Salaì, Mario, Claudia and Angelo. They were not the most intimidating to look at. As it was, they were getting odd stares from the people that filed past, wondering how such a mismatched group had come into existence, though without knowing the depth of their cause, moved on without so much as a second glance. Ezio had always relied on the general ignorance of modern civilisation.

"Salaì; you will go to the tower with the excuse that one of the Borgia has sent you. This document will be your proof."

He passed a small envelope over to the boy. It had been stolen by another informant long before, read a dozen times, but still looked to be in new condition. The red wax seal had even been mimicked to give it the air of authenticity. Inside, it was stated that an important prisoner was to be given an inspection, and Ezio thanked whatever deity watched over them that he had chosen to keep it.

"Once inside, check the area for any weaknesses. Anything from loose bricks to empty cells. It can all be used as a way for us to infiltrate and escape again."

Gian nodded. A wave of excitement crashed over him as he imagined taking on the guise, walking through the ranks of the enemy until he was brought to Fiorentino's cell, where he would perhaps relay the plan to him if they had a moment alone.

"Claudia, Uncle; you will be responsible for the distraction. With Angelo, draw the crowd's attention when I give you the signal, either through an argument or claims of adultery. Angelo, this is an important job. I need you to look as confused as possible when Mario starts shouting. Do you understand me?"

The boy, wide-eyed and bewildered, nodded. He understood that Fiorentino was in trouble, but no one had explained the severity of his situation, and no one would dare to unless they failed in their plot.

Finally, Ezio turned to Leonardo. The artist knew his skills were limited to the side-lines of assassin life – researching and deciphering Codex pages was all he had been given to do, plus the few times he was asked to create whatever upgrade his friend had discovered. But as blue eyes met brown, Ezio realised that he was determined to be a part of his son's escape, whether or not that included the areas of work he was most comfortable with.

"Leonardo," he began; "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Fiorentino is my son. I won't stand by and let these cani hurt him."

"Then you and I will be waiting on the roofs that surround the tower. When Salaì comes out of the prison and gives us the signal, we begin to clear out the area of any guards, informants, or anyone else who may work for this Ettore."

They were in agreement. Leonardo felt the claws of apprehension scratching up his spine, and wondered what would happen if they were to fail. They would all be put to death, no doubt. Claudia, Mario and Angelo would perhaps get away, but him, Ezio and Gian would be as good as dead. Executed alongside his son. It was a terrifying thought.

Just as they were about to turn, a shrill voice rang above the gentle hum of conversation around them – a voice the artist recognised; "Leonardo Da Vinci!"

His head snapped sideways to see a familiar if older Magdalena hurrying towards him, clutching the hem of a brown dress as she approached. Her eyes were wrought with concern, but still that brilliant green that had first caused him to notice her, and her hair had lost only some of its natural vibrancy.

"Signora," he greeted, his smile forced; "It's good to see you."

"Your son is in prison!" she ignored his words; "He faces the gallows, and he isn't denying his charge. What do you make of this?"

Leonardo looked to Ezio, who peered at the woman as though she had grown two heads.

"His name was released?" the artist asked. For all he was worth, he could not will away the anxiety in his voice, for if Fiorentino's identity was revealed the boy would never integrate himself back into society.

"No. I only know because my husband is Captain of the Guard. Fillipa's son – Ettore – he accuses him of murder. I never did like that devil!"

Behind him, the team had grown subdued. They did not recognise Magdalena, but thanked the heavens for her appearance, since she seemed so full of information they could use in Fee's rescue.

Leonardo clutched her gloved hands. It was the first time he had done so voluntarily, and with a grimace he realised they still jumped, still reacted to his touch.

"Maggie," he said, appealing to her through a nickname he had never used; "I know how this seems, but we need to know everything about Fee's prison. It's a matter of life and death."

She nodded; "He's guilty, isn't he?"

"Yes. But it was never his choice."

"I thought not. He's too…some men aren't meant for violence."

Leonardo's eyes softened once more. Inside his heart there was a stab of regret; both for the man his son could have been, and the man he had become, beaten and tormented by his own demons as he served some 'greater good.'

Magdalena took a deep breath and continued; "My husband thinks Fee is innocent. If I ask him, he will help you. Leonardo?" she looked him deep in the eyes, her own so soft and light that he was transported back all those years ago; "He refuses to go. Your son. He refuses to fight."

"What?"

"He says he has no will to go on. The gallows; for him, they're liberation. He wants to die."

Back in the tower, Fiorentino was busy. He had hidden on his person a long knife, carelessly left by a guard when he went about his patrol, and in his sleeve he tucked it away for future use.

_Si ingannare amabile; _he thought; _I will stand with you until the end._


	51. Tears to Weep

Magdalena's husband made it so that Gian could visit Fee without need of the document. Claims of being a distant cousin were made, hands shook, an oath taken; it all meant very little to Salaì and perhaps even less to the guards, but it was done anyway.

As the apprentice wandered the prison to the tune of his instructions, he took the time to look around. Most of the cells were empty. Stains of dried blood showed where men had either gone insane and maimed themselves, or had attacked one another out of petty territorial disputes. The floors were dirty enough to have been home to pigs and cows rather than prisoners. All in all, the grey, monotonous stone had little appeal to it, other than the occasional rectangles of light that pooled on the floor, filtering through the bars to give a blind-like effect on the dusty stone.

What few prisoners there were yelled at him. He was no woman, so there were no catcalls or suggestions of a sexual nature – most were cries of innocence or mercy, and the others threatened him with his life, jangling their thick chains as they followed him in the tiny space of their cells and lost him when he moved on.

_A shame; _he smiled as he looked at the wide, crazed eyes of a man too long in shackles; _I would have enjoyed the vulgarities._

Beneath his robe, Gian had been given a blade to hide. Mario had suspected his own was taken from him, and so he decreed before they left Tuscany that he would have another, something new, to mark the momentous escape from death and its armoured associates.

It was streamlined, fitted within a leather brace that was tailored to Fiorentino's arm. Leonardo had remembered his measurements exactly. It was with an assured smile that he had crafted the blade and handed it over.

"A father never forgets his son's weapon arm," he claimed, though he had grimaced when he said it.

Beside the blade, he hid the key to the assassin's prison cell. Another favour of Magdalena's husband. So certain was he of Fee's innocence that he questioned neither the man nor the charge against to him. It was rather business-like; the way he had given the key, informed them about the men's patrols, and told them to take a good man home.

Fiorentino saw Gian walk in from the narrow hall. It expanded into a room in which his cell was located – the most protected cell, he was assured by Ettore – complete with one chair in a darkened corner for visitors and a small dresser, the use for which hadn't been clear. Belladonna often put her jewels on it when she came to stare at him. She was interested in his silent ways, not attracted, and he always felt as though he were being dissected under her eyes, watched like a common animal frothing at the mouth.

"Fee!" the apprentice said, his lips rising to a smile. He picked up his pace to hurry to the cage, so close now that he could see into the dark hood Fiorentino wore, could see the deep brown eyes that were still somewhat cast in shadow. "Maestro will be so pleased. Here; let me help you."

The key was in the lock before Fee could protest. As the rusted iron swung open, the hinges squealing, Gian turned to leave and beckoned for him to follow. "Quickly; we haven't much time. A patrol will be here soon."

The apprentice moved forward to the narrow hall. What little light seeped into the murky air revealed there were no men, but he could hear them moving further down, out of his sight.

"Come on, Fee!" he muttered as he peered from the corner; "Will you hurry up? We need to go!"

There was a heartbeat of silence. Then;

"No, Gian," the hinges squealed once more, slowly this time, as Fiorentino pulled his prison bars closed; "I can't."

He turned to see him holding out his hands, gesturing for the keys that hung from his own. They jangled in a moment of stunned surprise. Gian moved back, until he was against the wall, while those kind, brown eyes looked at him, utterly defeated.

"Give me the keys."

"Fee, this is no time-"

"Don't tell me about time!" Fee snapped; "Just give me the chiavi!"

"You have to stop these games! If we don't go now, we'll never escape the guards! Maestro and the others are waiting for us!"

"Then they will wait for you alone."

"You're speaking madness!"

"Madness?!" Fiorentino gestured to his small cage, now his lonesome kingdom; "You think this is madness? This _justice_ for my crimes? My life for the countless I've taken? Why can Ezio not just leave me in the coffin he's created?"

Gian saw the torment in his companion's eyes, so acute was it that it overrode his kindness and made him seem for a moment like a raving madman, haunted by past misdeeds and horrors that no man should have borne witness to. He reared back until he had reached the end of his cell, where Fee stayed, staring out of the window as though it were replaying his entire life. He was motionless for what seemed like an eternity.

"Everything I've done," he said, voice strained as if on the verge of tears; "All that I am – it was never my own doing. I never had a choice. These hands; they're stained with the blood of men I had no quarrel with. My tongue is black with lies that were not entirely mine to tell. Does Maestro not love me enough to see how much I hurt? Can he not find it in his compassionate heart to let me go?"

The light gave him an angelic glow, though from where Gian was standing he could only see the back of his cloaked head and body. Fee raised his arms, helpless to his end, helpless to fate and its cruel, methodical dictatorship.

"This execution is my gift, Gian. I leave my son in a world I may have made a little cleaner, and, if not, with my death has become so. Maestro has you now. Replace me well."

Another moment of silence stretched out as long as a snake, sunning itself in hot weather. Gian looked at the boy he had resented, obsessed and admired, who now claimed to have lost the will to live, and wanted only to walk into his destiny as a man should walk into battle. With bravery, integrity, and honour.

What little of it remained.

But instead, the apprentice surged forward and threw open the door, his hands flailing as he begged; "Per favore, Fee, will you-"

"What is that cell doing open?!"

Both of them realised too late that one of the guardsmen had come in, eyes bugging beneath a polished metal helmet. His screech was so loud that soon enough clanking feet could heard behind him, and the room on the hall's side was rapidly filled by a line of men armed with spears. Wearing matching crests, they pointed their weapons at the apprentice and assassin, posing as though defending a King against an enemy.

Fiorentino saw no other option. He had to defend Gian; not for the goodness of his character, but because he knew how deeply Leonardo cared for his apprentice. With a move as fluid as running water, he twirled, pulling the knife from his sleeve and brandishing it in the sunlight trickling from the window behind him.

"Both of you are under arrest for treason," a thin, moustached guard said; "Lower your weapon."

"Cani like you won't lay a hand on him!" Fee growled; "You have to go through me first!"

There was a collection of hushed, scarcely audible laughter, and then; "Aw, assassin – is this man your lover? Are you a sodomite as much as you are a murderer?"

Gian moved closer to Fee. Behind his back, he produced the blade, and moved it over to his companion's free hand, which was hidden from the guard's sight.

There was a moment in which Fee managed to slip the bracer on with only one hand, and then he made the first move. It was a sudden jerk of his hand that had the knife in Gian's grasp, with him screaming; "Now, Salaì! Fight!"

Below, Leonardo and Ezio hurried into the tower, alerted by the screams of men thrust into battle. They had instructed Mario to keep all patrolling guards busy so as not to investigate the noise, but Magdalena's husband himself could not keep them at bay for long.

They raced through the abysmal surroundings like men possessed. Around them, the prisoners cried; "The bastardi die! The bastardi die!" as though it were a God-given hymn, blessed by Him in the mighty realms of Heaven.

It was with bloodshed that they were greeted.

In the room where Belladonna had observed her prey, where Ettore had gloated his capture, now the guards found their ends to Fiorentino's blade – a blade that had been baptised in crimson waters. The boy's hood was seen flitting between head to head, where quickly men fell to die, twitching on the floor.

"Fee!" Leonardo called above the din; "Fee! Salaì! Follow us!"

Ezio was in the fray to beat back some of the attacks. There must have been at least thirty-five enemies in that room, and there were but four of them, two of which had no training. Gian was coping well; he managed to hold his own against the guards, slashing with all that he was worth, as slowly, slowly, the pair advanced, soon to break through the ranks and rush with their rescuers down the stairs.

Their enemies were quick to give chase.

Charging through the halls, the quartet found themselves growing nearer to the entrance, which was a large fortress-like place with bars that separated the main cells from the lobby. It was intended for guards to sit there during their breaks, unafraid of riots and breakouts, for the secondary set of bars would stop any rogue prisoners.

Gian was through first. Then went Leonardo. Ezio was the third, and there they stopped to catch their breaths, waiting for Fee to escape so that they might lock the guards within. But as they stood there, no boy followed them. No assassin freed himself.

Leonardo looked back. There Fee stood, watching him through kind, compassionate eyes, his hood being pulled down in a manner that could only be described as contemplative.

"Come, Fee!" he muttered, beckoning him frantically forward; "They'll catch up with us soon!"

Fiorentino opened his mouth to reply, but another voice cut him off. It came from behind him, and from the shadows, where none of them had thought to glance for the immediate danger of the guards, Ettore made himself known.

"Leaving? Without saying a goodbye to your host?" he asked; "My, my – such rudeness! I would never have expected it from a man so renowned for his softness."

Fee moved back. Turning, he closed the door to the cells, slipping through them the key he had stolen from Gian not moments before the fight, when he had handed over the hidden blade. He locked the barrier as Leonardo hurried up to the bars, clutching them with a frantic look in his eyes.

"Fee, what are you doing?" he growled; "Open this door at once. Don't you play games with us – not now."

"Father, go," he said. His hand cupped over Leonardo's, warm and strong, calloused from his many hours of training and field work. Those eyes were still so compassionate when he looked upon his father.

"He means to kill you!" the artist reminded.

"That I do!"

"And if he kills me, so be it. But if I turn and run from him like a coward, he reveals my name, and all of your pride goes with it. This is not your fight, Father. This isn't your war. Go. Let me to my fate."

Behind him, the guards were piling up. They formed a small barrier behind Ettore, fearsome in their thirty-something's, and they all brayed for Fee's blood as the assassin stepped back.

Leonardo pleaded one last time, being pulled away by a distraught Salaì and silent Ezio; "Please, Fee. Don't do this. Torna da mi."

"Even if I die."

The artist was bundled out of the building. He wept for the son who so bravely watched him go, and then turned, breathing out as he looked on the enemies he would face.

Ettore stood in the middle of a sea of iron, spears and glares, the crest the same no matter where he looked. The prematurely grey foe stared at him with those hardened eyes, and Fee revealed his blade, forcing his own smile.

"Today, we see the winner to our games."

"That we do, Fiorentino," Ettore gestured to his men; "I'm curious to know just which one of us mother gave the most nutrition to."

"The same woman who nursed me must have given all the tainted milk to him before. Let us see who falls this day!"


	52. Dead No More

They had checked every body.

Every single last body had been turned and checked, inspected within an inch of their life, and yet they were sure of it. Ettore's cold, lifeless eyes watched them from his pool of blood, neck slashed, mouth open in a silent scream as the trio went about their work.

Fiorentino was not among them. He was not a corpse or survivor; in fact, he had just vanished. Not a trace remained of him other than the thirty something guards with armour washed with crimson, and their weapons sprawled out at sporadic intervals as though they had been dropped in surprise.

"It's no use," Ezio sighed, rolling one of the lifeless heaps back into place; "He's not here."

"Where would he have gone to, Ezio? Davvero, he should have been waiting for us outside." Leonardo's calm voice was a guise for his worry. His heart had dropped when he saw the bodies, piled high and killed with an almost cruel precision, while what little adrenaline remained from the chase made sure to keep him standing.

It was determination that gave him the will to sort through them. As each face revealed to be someone other than his son, hope bloomed in his chest, flowering when he discovered Ettore propped up against one of the cells – all the proof he needed to think Fee successful.

"Perhaps he left to search for us?" Gian suggested, though his face had paled somewhat at the sight of the dead bodies and he steadied himself against the wall; "It would hardly be the first time he's done something like that."

"No…no, he knew we would return. I felt it. If he wanted us to find him, he would be right here." The artist staggered, finding a small seat left by one of the now-dead guards some days before, and sat on it with distraught eyes. In his mind, he worked out all the possibilities for his son to have fled. He had been victorious in his fight with Ettore, ruthless in his battle with the guards, a killer amongst lambs…

"Leonardo…" he looked up to see Ezio's eyes, so reflective of what had happened, and yet, filled with a sort of newfound wisdom, as though Fiorentino's suffering had given to his uncle an insight; "Perhaps…perhaps he…"

There was certainly a chance. Many times, Fiorentino had spoken of escape. He had described how he wished to walk free of his restraints, how he wished to feel the wind on his face and the sun kiss his cheeks. He longed to walk as a free man without fear of what lurked in the shadows, for it was him, his face that loomed there, like a demon in the darkness. Men's minds, he once said, had tainted what was beautiful. Instead of mountains, he saw arrows. Instead of clouds, he saw cover. And instead of people, so profound in their shapes and sizes, so unique in themselves that they were more like valuable statuettes, he saw knives, swords and shields, marching into war with prams still at their feet.

Had he finally turned tail and run?

"No, it can't be," the artist denied; "He would never leave me without warning. Never. I can't believe he would do such a thing."

"He asked for his life to end here," Gian pointed out, "He wanted to die. Perhaps he thought this was like death? Una bara per l'assassino."

Leonardo thought back. His son had looked so miserable, so defeated when last they met. A few hours before, when the trio had escaped and found refuge near the canals, where they sat in stony silence until they felt it was safe to return, those eyes haunted him. They were sapped not only of energy, but the will to carry on. One look at Fee, and he had almost suspected his son would lose his fight on purpose, just to feel death's cold embrace take him and make things quiet again.

But Ettore was dead. He had been killed, his neck slashed open like a ripe fruit, and his blood left to pool. If there were any last rites for him, they were not evident. Fiorentino had either done them hastily or in mind.

Ezio came to sit beside his friend. He crouched, head low, as though contemplating himself were his dear nephew could have flown to.

"We will give search," he decided; "Starting here, we'll work our way around Florence until he is returned to us. I won't have-"

"No, Ezio," Leonardo sighed; "You will never find him."

Two pairs of eyes rose to the artist. His voice was tired, like an old man's, and his figure slumped, so devoid of his usual etiquette that he resembled nothing of the man they were used to.

"Of course we will. Sì – we must. How else will he come back to us?"

Leonardo looked down. In his eyes, Ezio caught sight of unfathomable despair, so intense that in its very existence it sent shivers down his spine. It was silent, too, like a mourning bird with no voice to sing, and no wings to lift it in the air.

"He won't. Don't you see? He has left us."

"No, Leonardo; you can't think like that. Fee belongs with you."

"That he does," he smiled weakly, "but I can do little about it now. My boy is a free agent. If he wants to come back to me, he will. If not, I will never see him again."

A stab of pain took his heart at those words. He could never imagine looking upon the floors of the Villa without remembering Fee's footsteps, or the walls where some of his artwork dangled, edited and redrawn by Leonardo himself. He could never see a child without seeing his round-headed baby giggling at him, teetering on unsteady feet towards a table, a chair. It was impossible.

"Do you need anything, my friend?" Ezio asked, though it felt like a foolish question, for what could he do?

"No, Ezio, grazie. I think I just need some time."

With a nod of his head, the assassin moved, ready to begin the tedious work of body disposal. He would perhaps tie them up, give them the proper rites and burial, all with the help of the blanched apprentice that still recovered from the shock of finding dead. They would work in a tense silence, too, for they had naught to say to each other, nothing in common but a chance occurrence which had brought them on their quest.

For Leonardo, there was nothing but thought. A quiet contemplation of what had happened, and what would happen next. He thought of his son and the man he could have become; the opportunities he had and could never have again, which now seemed to be useless memories of a boy they could not bury, for he was not dead, but no more was he alive.

As the final rays of lasting sunlight died, Leonardo thought of the son who had vanished without warning, and would likely never return.


	53. Resolution

It had been a few weeks since Fee's disappearance, and Leonardo busied himself with menial tasks in the Villa – cleaning, preparing his equipment, decorating canvases that were not for commissions. Anything to keep his mind from his missing son.

After he had returned to Monteriggioni, he decided that Fee must have been mortally wounded and, not wanting to worry anyone, had hurried off to die alone. The image of his son, beaten and bloody, lying in some gutter in his final moments was enough to make him wretch, weep and cry out in anger. Why was it that those with good hearts had such cruel lives? Why did circumstance favour the bitter and deceitful, when if Fiorentino could have had his pen and written his books he stood the chance to save the world from its moral demise?

As he swept away all the paraphernalia on his workshop table, Leonardo began to sketch. He had a painting in mind for Florence. He would make the buildings melt and lean like crooked old men, forcing the trees in the park, which he would draw bare and twisted, to become walking sticks. The grand sky would drip down and the sun would fizzle out to become a chunk of black coal. He would make all the people ugly; toad-faced, slimy creatures that scuttled on two chicken-like legs, arms filled with petty, pointless things, eyes wide but dumb. Their ignorance to his boy's gentle nature was fuel for Leonardo's wrath, and he would deal with his rage in the only way he knew how.

Gian worried for the artist. He would watch as late at night Leonardo worked, candle flickering at his side, exaggerating his shadow across a stone wall now stripped of its paintings. His head hardly rose, and when it did, it was only to gaze vacantly at the grey in front of him.

Mario and Ezio mourned him in their own way. They burned replicas of his clothes, praying to a conventional deity that he would be received well, before quitting the memorial and fighting with everything they had in them. Soldiers both brave and cunning were brought down, for the men longed to see the fresh-faced child that they had indoctrinated to their cause, and who they had lost to it. Like Frederico. But Frederico had always been a willing martyr; Fiorentino had wished for nothing more than to wash his hands of it.

Salaì helped Claudia, listening to her share fond memories of her nephew. She revealed he had often read Angelo stories, recited to him great epics of books he no longer had but had memorised, and never failed to put a smile on her face with his constant willingness to help. Even if he had returned from eight weeks on the field, she said, he had always offered to do some household chores before he went to bed. He had a heart of gold not meant for Auditore men.

They sat in the front office of the Villa, the sunlight having died and the silver glow of the moonlight shining through the windows, pooling on the floor. The desk was filled with knitting equipment and their finished pieces. They had become close through it, though Claudia had often joked with the boy that he would make a fine wife, should he knit so well for a man.

Fiorentino's portrait hung proudly in the art room. Mario had asked to put it on display, and Leonardo did not object. His four year old self, bright smile, kind eyes, looked down at the collections of landscape art and portraits, the paintings of old, degenerate people just moments before being hanged; it brought a sort of joy to the room. Visitors could not feel the despair and loss that now resonated from the image. They just commented about it, asked who the boy was, and moved on.

"Have you seen Maestro Leonardo today, Salaì?" the woman asked, packing away some of the large blunted knitting needles; "He never came down for dinner."

Gian nodded; "He said he had just made some progress on his recent painting, and felt rude to the piece if he left it. Nobiltà al suo meglio."

"He really must stop doing that. I worry for his health."

"Well," the apprentice ducked his head down to the patch of ground beneath him, hesitant to bring up old haunts; "We all know why he does it."

There was a moment of tense silence, then; "Yes, we do."

The pair began to place the knitting away in handy compartments; behind the shelves, in the small desk drawers, even in Angelo's toy chest that was hidden in a dark corner. Gian made no further comment on his mentor's health. He knew that Leonardo was still in mourning, perhaps would always be so, for Fiorentino had been the one consistent source of light for him in an increasingly dim world, and now that light had been extinguished.

Mario entered the Villa, face grubby and eyes tired. He looked first at the artwork room thrown into shadow, and then ambled towards the front office where his niece and guest were tidying.

"A courier came," he announced, surprising the pair who had their backs turned to him. He produced a letter from his belt, clean despite the dirt on his hands; "He gave me this letter. It's for Leonardo."

Gian jumped to take it from him. Rarely did people cross into the artist's domain, worried for how his mind was faring in grief.

"A courier, so late?" Claudia asked as the boy began to check it over, "That can't be right. Troppo strano."

"He said he was paid extra for the trouble. He seemed an honest sort."

Gian nodded; "I'll take it to him."

Upstairs, surrounded by hasty sketches and rage-fuelled, half-finished paintings, Leonardo set to work on his latest piece. He cared not for the state of his room. He just worked, worked until the image of his happy faced young boy was gone from his mind, even to be replaced by the creatures of grief.

He heard the feet traipsing up the stone staircase. For one wild moment, he thought it might be Fiorentino. Perhaps the boy had finally made good on his promise? To return to him, even in death. But he was left disappointed; Gian walked in, looking at him with an almost hesitant gaze as he toyed with the letter in hand.

"Maestro?" he asked.

"What is it?" Leonardo fixed himself back on what he was doing; "I'm busy right now, Salaì. What's so important that you have to disturb me?"

"Maestro…it's a letter."

Stilling, Leonardo was silent as a white envelope was placed next to him. He dared not look. If he looked, he might have been driven insane. Gian could not read it for him, though, and after a while of motionlessness, the artist turned his head.

In curly writing so familiar to him, read the words 'MAESTRO DA VINCI.'

The candle flickered beside him as though waiting for a reaction. Then, Leonardo snatched him up, pulling the candleholder towards him so he could better inspect the words, believing them to be forgeries. Who would do something so cruel?

"Who gave you this?" he demanded.

"Mario was given it by a courier. He said he was paid extra to deliver it so late."

"Who paid him?"

"We don't know. Mario didn't say."

Without any other lead to go on, Leonardo tore the letter open, ignoring the delicate letter opener he usually used in his haste.

He stilled. Gian noticed his shoulders tensing, his eyes widening, and his mouth becoming a hard frown. Then, almost elated, he began to laugh – something close to hysterical, but not quite so, and so comforting to the ears of the apprentice that had long watched him grieve.

"I knew it," he said; "I knew it."

The letter was short, concise, no more than three words long;

_I am safe._


End file.
